


You're the Worst

by fanforfanatic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Dean, Castiel is a Little Shit, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, Editor Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Dean, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Top Castiel, Writer Castiel, ass!cas, but also he is very soft, canon snippets written by Cas' character, high!sex, sex first; love later, they both are, they switch but not in the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic/pseuds/fanforfanatic
Summary: After Gabriel Milton, co-owner of Word Mil Publishing, goes into early retirement, Dean becomes Castiel Novak’s new editor. The author is brilliant, immensely talented and a grade-A asshole. But what he’s best at is getting under Dean’s skin, and into Dean’s pants. It’s why their professional relationship warps into something sexual Dean enjoys more than he knows he should.When it seems less and less likely that Cas will ever put effort into his next manuscript, Dean strikes a deal that forces them to reveal more of themselves.Dean has a pure love for storytelling. Castiel likes making fun of his readers. Dean believes in hard work. Castiel believes in instant gratification. Maybe they could try to meet in the middle, but for now, when Cas asks him to drop to his knees, Dean does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This challenge was exactly that: challenging. I’m very tired, now, though I am very tired always so that might not have anything to do with it.
> 
> Some truly wonderful individuals offered me support and encouragement throughout this process which is to say that they put up with my shit/whining. So thank you (and also sorry) for that, [shark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/waitforspring/pseuds/sharkfish), [arei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/areiton), [frecks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/casloveshisfreckles), [halz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Halzbarry/pseuds/AngelsintheImpala), [soba](http://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi), [ruby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/la_rubinita), [ig](http://sadwhitemen.tumblr.com/), [remmy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme), and [demoon](https://klaineaholic.tumblr.com/). These are kind and generous humans who also happen to be insanely talented so I really recommend checking them out.
> 
> Then there are my betas <3333 [wahtah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wahtah) and [nilozot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nilozot). Thank you for being prompt and diligent and tactful and honest. Nilozot has her own [dcbb (summary)](http://deancasbigbang.tumblr.com/post/165689010090/title-the-aleph-bet-of-dean-winchester-author) coming out on the 20th and it’s different from any fics I’ve read so far so I’m really excited about it and suggest you mark your calendars, too!
> 
> I was paired with sevenspirals for the art which I'll link here as soon as the art post is up!
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy the read <3

Dean steels himself on the front porch of the cobblestone house, and sighs. His job has always been demanding, and he’s not afraid of hard work, but he doesn’t get a minute to breathe anymore.

Friday nights were for hanging at Charlie’s, Saturday nights for dating, and Sundays for lazing around, while Sam nagged him about it. Since messing with him became Castiel Novak’s pastime of choice, he’s lucky to tune up his car once a month.

Lucky’s not the word.

He barges in like he’s done hundreds of times. His footfalls are heavy, a warning of sorts, one Cas will not heed. He never has before.

Dean stomps up the stairs, down the hall, into Cas’ office—not that Cas ever works—and right up to the massive, dickish desk. Cas bought the house furnished and never bothered with redecorating, or unpacking. The room’s built-in wooden shelves are wasted, and along the edge of the room, boxes and stacks of books crowd the floor.

“What the hell is this?” Dean half shouts (he's given up on full shouting) and slams a manuscript down on the already cluttered desk.

Cas is leaning back in his large, pretentious, wooden rolling chair (the only piece of furniture he did buy) with his head hanging off the back, the long line of his neck on display. He remains that way, unmoving save for the strong hands toying with the drawstring of his open hoodie. He doesn’t look at Dean.

“It’s the first chapter.” 

When they first met, Dean might have confused Cas’ tone as matter-of-fact, but he’s spent enough time with the infuriating and brilliant writer that he can detect the patronizing note.

“First chapter of what? This is not what you’re being paid to write. It’s not the book you pitched us!”

“It’s not the book my  _ agent _ pitched,” Cas amends still looking up, but it’s nowhere near a concession.

“Hey!” Dean three-quarter shouts instead of staring at Cas’ fingers, tightly coiling and uncoiling string around them with fluid and sure motions that— “Is there something more fascinating happening on the stucco?” 

He hasn’t been here more than a minute and Cas is already under his skin. Aloof, and haughty, and gorgeous, he might have taken up residency there.

“This,” Dean gestures wildly at the manuscript, “is unacceptable.” 

Way past unacceptable. It took four months after Cas’ fourth deadline extention to get a first draft, which wasn’t really a draft at all. More like an outline. Not a complete outline, either. It was a collection of adroit words printed on paper and Dean had thought it was _progress_ , because until then Cas had given him nothing. 

He’s worked with difficult writers before. They weren’t all the same kind of difficult, no, some were lazy, some were insecure, some were unorganised and some were undisciplined, but none were like Cas. 

Dean loves a challenge. Loves bringing out that _thing_ great artists have. Cas has it too. Dean doesn’t even need to look to see it. Cas is the best writer he’s ever worked with, but Cas is also the _worst._

It took Dean another month to get a real chapter out of Cas, and it’s not even for the same book.

Cas lifts his head languidly, but there is nothing casual about the way he looks at Dean. The drag of Cas’ eyes against his skin is the lighting of a match. It’s enough to set him on fire. 

“If it’s unacceptable, then it’s unacceptable. Go ahead and drop me.”

Cas sounds like he means it, and maybe he does, but Dean knows  Cas knows  letting him go isn’t an option. Castiel Novak is a household name across the country, across the pond, across the globe.  He’s the publishing house’s biggest seller. Word Mil could stay afloat without Cas, but it would stop being top tier. 

And if Dean is the one who loses their biggest talent, then he can kiss his upcoming promotion goodbye. There’s no way in hell that’s happening. Dean has worked too hard for too long to drop the ball so close to the finish line.

Cas looks fucking smug, like he’s some sort of king in his dumb rolling chair, fully aware that he holds all the power. 

Dean attempts a stabilising breath. “You know I can’t do that,” he says on the exhale.

“I know,” Cas says. “You didn’t like it?” 

“Of course I liked it, man. And it’s the most polished thing you’ve given me in ages, but you can’t keep backtracking like this.”

Cas raises a brow and it’s the same as saying  _ I do what I want,  _ which isn’t untrue.

“You shouldn’t,” Dean corrects with a sigh. “Look, you know I’m partial to the original premise, but if this is the story you want to tell, I’ll back you, as long as you  _ tell it _ . The book won’t write itself.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth lifts to form something that is not exactly a smile. “I don’t care much for it, myself.” 

Cas picks up the manuscript, the one Dean emptied a pen onto while annotating, and tosses it under his desk. The metal wastebasket rattles.

“I’ve started something new,” Cas continues, drumming his long fingers once irritatingly, against a stack of papers that look freshly printed. God forbid Cas use technology to its full benefit and send Dean the file.

“You have new pages about something completely different again.” Dean tosses his hands up. “Of course you do.” 

“Come here, Dean,” Cas says. Dean stills, taken off guard and wary. His pacing has taken him far from the desk. Self preservation. He’s always safer with distance between him and Cas. Space. Room to breathe. “Come here and bend over these new pages so I can fuck you on them.”

Dean was still but now he’s paralyzed. Until he’s not at all. Until he’s making his way across the room, around the desk. To Cas. 

This is a thing they do. It started around Cas’ original deadline. Around the second extension, Dean stopped swearing that he’d quit doing it; the oath never stuck.

Here Dean is again, standing in front of Cas again, undoing his pants again, and watching the writer push off the desk to make room for Dean. Again. Dean grinds his teeth at the sound of the wheels against the floorboards. He really hates that damn chair and he really hates the man sitting in it. 

Dean steps between Cas’ legs anyway, bends over the desk he also hates, pulls his pants down to just under his ass, and holds his breath for the first touch Cas will give him. Itching for it like an addict would for their next fix.

Sometimes, Cas likes to make Dean wait until he is past mild shame and firmly in mortified territory. An editor folded in half, begging his writer to give it to him up the ass. Dean has never been that guy. Until Cas. It feels like everything with Dean was one way until Cas. Then everything became Cas’ way.

There’s no stalling today. Cas rolls in close, breath warm on Dean’s exposed skin, and spreads his cheeks without ceremony. A thumb, damp enough Cas must have given it a swipe of his tongue, presses against his rim.

The touch is light, but his moan comes from deep inside his chest, chased by a relieved exhale. God, he’s been needing this.

“It’s been a while, Dean,” Cas says, tapping Dean’s hole once, twice. He chuckles when he continues, “You could say I’ve got you under my thumb, but that’s always the case, isn’t it?”

Dean grunts in annoyance and braves an eyeroll Cas won’t see. Apparently, it’s still wrong because Cas digs a nail into his flesh. Dean’s eyes squeeze shut, like that can erase his transgression, and he grinds his teeth again but this time to stave off the pain he finds all too sweet.

“I think I  _ do _ want you to say it.”

“Cas—” Dean’s complaint cuts off as Cas grips him harder, fingertips promising marks on his ass. “‘M under your thumb, Cas. Please.”

Cas hums in amusement, or pleasure. Dean hopes it’s the latter because it’s better when Cas is happy with him, but it’s probably a perversion of both. It always seems like Cas is laughing at him, at least a little. 

“Atta boy,” Cas says and Dean hears the grin.

Dean wants to tell him to fuck off and to shove his condescending comments right where it hurts but then Cas is pushing a dry finger into him. It’s slow and it stings, but he moans anyway. When Cas pulls out, adds lube and pushes back in, he misses the burn.

“Look at that,” Cas says smugly. “Clearly, not so long that I’ve forgotten how to make you—What would you call this, Dean? Hot and bothered? Not too cliche for your editor ears, is it?”

With his free hand, Cas reaches forward and tugs on Dean’s earlobe, gives it a flick, then laughs. Dean ignores the humiliation and pushes onto Cas. Cas pulls his hand back, and Dean’s need grows.

“ _ Please _ .” It sounds too much like begging.

Cas crooks that same finger inside him, goes  _ hmm _ like he has to think about Dean’s request. Which is exactly what it is. A request. 

Dean isn’t sure when that happened, when he stopped allowing Cas to take and started offering himself up instead. Started asking for more because Dean always wants  _ more _ .

“You’re so greedy,” Cas says. Maybe Cas put a tap in Dean’s thoughts. “This hole, too.” Cas draws his finger out, and circles the rim before pushing two back in. “Greedy, greedy, greedy.” He punctuates each word with a thrust and Dean punctuates each of those with a plea.

“But that’s okay, Dean,” Cas assures, all false devotion. “I’m a generous man.”

Dean’s hazy mind can’t supply a response, or a thought, because the next thing Cas does is remove his hands altogether. Dean keens, arching his back and pressing his chest into the manuscript beneath him. Cas has barely touched him and he’s already a mess, eyes watering, hands fisted. Cas knew how to manipulate his body the very first time they did this, and he’s only gotten better.

Cas gets a condom from the second drawer on the left side. Dean knows they’re there, with the lube, because in the past Cas has had him put them away while on all fours. 

When Cas is ready—he doesn’t do anything before he’s good and ready—he trails fingers from the back of Dean’s knee, up his thigh, and through the soft hairs there, causing goosebumps on every inch. Cas brushes over the round of Dean’s ass before flattening it at the small of his back where his shirt is hiked. A thumb strokes one of the twin indents on either side of his spine, and with a hand on his hip, Cas prompts him to stand.

“See? You can have as much as you’d like.”

Dean nods dumbly, brackets Cas’ legs with his own and reaches for Cas’ cock to lower onto it, that pleasant pain returning briefly. Dean groans the whole way down and once he’s seated in Cas’ lap, once zipper teeth bite his skin, he says Cas’ name like he’s _grateful_. “Cas, Cas, please, can I?”

Dean waits, breath held.

“Go ahead.” Cas grants his permission into Dean’s shoulder, voice rumbling through the fabric of his shirt, through skin and muscle and bone, straight to where Dean is.

Maybe Cas  _ is _ generous _. _ Maybe Dean’s not entirely in his right mind. 

He starts moving, thigh muscles bunching as he lifts himself up and burrows down, Cas’ hand still on his hip, setting the pace.

Dean grips his knees just to have something to do with his hands, but he grips his knees  _ hard _ because he can’t not. He focuses on breathing, then he focuses on Cas’ breathing. The press of Cas’ chest against his back when Cas inhales. The shuddered rush of air at his ear when Cas exhales. 

Dean moves to touch his neglected cock but at Cas’ sharp  _ no _ , he keeps his hands right where they are, digs fingers into the bone of his knees.

Cas gropes him everywhere else, glides hands over sweaty skin, dips them just under his shirt, works them from Dean’s back, around a hip and up Dean’s chest, to violently tweak a nipple in reprimand.  

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Dean chokes, head dropping forward. Cas squeezes his hip to still him and starts fucking up, breath coming out harsher. Dean rasps, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ Cas. _ ”

“Observant as ever, Dean,” Cas says, somehow managing to sound collected.

Cas lets go of his hip—he doesn’t dare move—to snake up Dean’s back, over the shirt this time. He brushes against the back of Dean’s neck and grabs a fistful of hair. Dean yelps at the harsh tug and sharp angle of his neck. Hot pinpricks on his scalp shoot down to his still unattended cock.

Cas doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t even pay attention, and tilts Dean’s head back further to taste his throat. When Cas starts to suck on a spot for more than a few seconds Dean scrambles. “Cas, don’t—” Cas yanks on Dean’s hair to shut him up.

“No marks, I know. Now, keep quiet unless you’re making those charming sounds of yours.”

The drag of Cas’ dick is purposeful. As rare as it is for Cas to do something, it’s always exact, when he does. Precise. In this case, precisely where Dean wants wants wants.

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean chants, hands moving from his knees to clutch at Cas’. His heels struggle to find purchase on the floor as he tries to get more of Cas inside of him, impossibly. “Cas,  _ please _ .”

Cas grunts, lips still travelling the long expanse of Dean’s neck, leaving licks and kisses behind like gifts. Cas pulls on Dean’s hair one last time and says, “Stay like this.” Dean does, cranes his neck back further.

Cas takes too damn long getting his hand from Dean’s head to Dean’s dick, but he gets there and the grip is tight and rough. How they like it. Dean gasps when Cas hits his prostate and rubs his slit on the same beat.

“That’s it,” Cas says. “I love the way you take it, Dean.”

Cas keeps giving, grinding up into him, pinching Dean’s right nipple mercilessly, tugging at his cock, biting his ear. And Dean takes and takes and takes, lets it build and build and build. Feels it in that place inside him, but also sparking across his skin, everywhere. Dean writhes in Cas’ lap, a moaning mess, kept in place by Cas’ stable hands alone. 

Right when Dean is close, Cas says, “Wait.” It’s mostly to himself and sounds hoarse. “I wanted to do this over the manuscript.” 

“Cas, no, come on.” Dean shakes his head emphatically, as if that will convince Cas of anything. He’s as hardheaded as a hardcover.

“Shut up,” Cas snaps and Dean, of course, obeys, catching a trembling lip between his teeth for assurance. “All right, we’re going to get creative.”

Dean would ask what that means but every touch coils him more tightly than he thought possible. Cas shifts underneath him, manhandles him and angles his body one way, but it’s all blurring together. Dean doesn’t distinctly register any of it. Too far gone, riding a wave of—of  _ something _ . It’s not just pleasure. That doesn’t describe what Cas does to him. What only Cas has ever done to him.

Cas comes inside him, and then Dean sees white. He shoots out of Cas’ hand and onto the desk with what feels like the Earth shattering inside him.

Dean’s barely coherent, still panting, when Cas hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and says, “Rats! We missed.”

“What?” Dean slurs, drunk on that same something, riding the wave’s last ripples.

Cas nods against Dean and towards the desk. The newest manuscript is still there, and the words  _ Something New  _ are printed on the cover page. The edge is dunked in a small pool of Dean’s come, one of many that splatter the desk.

Cas says, “I wasn’t going to get to fuck you on it so I figured I deserved the next best thing.”

Dean’s brain slugs through the fog of thoughts. “I’m supposed to take that with me. I’m supposed to edit it.” It isn’t a concern for Cas; all he does is shrug. 

Cas makes Dean stand and, thankfully, his legs support him. The condom gets tossed, and Cas buttons up and walks out of the room with that particular swagger of his.

Dean stands there, pants sagging, soft cock out and shirt sticking to the sweat of his skin. He recuperates after minutes of idiocy, cleans up his own goddamn spunk, gets himself in order, and grabs the pages. He hesitates for the shortest second before ducking to grab the manuscript he came with from the wastebasket.

He keeps everything Cas writes.

-

“I wasn’t going to get to fuck you on it so I figured I deserved the next best thing,” Castiel says, thinking that there’s always next time. His aim will only get better with practice.

“I’m supposed to take that with me. I’m supposed to edit it.” Dean doesn’t see his wicked grin. Next time he’ll have Dean face him when they fuck. Dean has a good face.

Castiel considers telling him that’s precisely the point but shrugs instead. Dean will figure it out, and when he does Castiel will be hearing of it.

He grows tired of having Dean in his lap, and deposits him back on his own two feet. He grins wider at the way Dean sways on his bowlegs. He’s like a puppy learning to walk. Or maybe like Bambi. In any case, it entertains Castiel.

He leaves his office, and leaves Dean behind—the boy’s gonna need a minute, he always does. How long does he plan on keeping Dean around? He could get another editor. Michael might be a grade A dick but he isn’t so dumb as to displease Castiel, for Word Mil’s sake.

Dean comes with perks. A perky ass, for one. And he’s clever enough to keep up with Castiel. And it’s fun to pull on his strings. Castiel likes finding new ways to prod him. Dean’s reactions are, on occasion, not what Castiel predicts, and Castiel is good at predicting. He understands people, often better than they do themselves; it’s part of why they bore him. 

Also, the sex. Dean is a good lay. He takes whatever the fuck Castiel feels like giving, and he likes to please Castiel. Not in the calculated way people tend to employ. No false pretenses or hidden agendas. Dean bares himself to Castiel of his own volition. Knowing where to look makes it easy to see people, their motives, desires, fears. Vices. But Dean tends to surprise him.

So there are reasons to keep Dean around, but he’s no Gabriel when it comes to being his editor. Dean cares too much about Castiel’s work. Thinks there’s meaning to it. Thinks Castiel is some kind of genius. He is, but his writing doesn’t reflect that. There is nothing profound about his novels, or that damned series that started it all. It’s all a farce. A satire of the people reading his words, only the joke never lands because no one  _ gets it _ .

Meg gets it. She was in his dorm with him when he wrote his first book, high and laughing. It was a good time and it only got funnier when Meg jokingly submitted his manuscript to publishing houses. Castiel decided that if the people working there couldn’t tell it was crap and wanted his words placed on shelves, then Castiel shouldn’t have a problem taking their money. Meg agreed, amending that it was their duty, really, to take it and run.

_ “It’s  _ our _ duty, Megara?” _

_ “That’s Agent Meg to you, Clarence.” _

Gabriel got it. Gabriel was happy to shoot the shit with him every once in a while, bouncing ideas on how to make his plots  _ more _ ridiculous, but left him to write whenever Castiel felt like it, knowing that it’d be a bestseller.

Gabriel didn’t say things like  _ What’s the story you want to tell, Cas?  _ or  _ Is this setting a metaphor? _ He definitely never said  _ Cas, you need to be more efficient.  _ Gabriel’s retired early. He sent an email Castiel never read—it would have wasted his time.

Dean doesn’t get it. Dean cares.

Castiel can’t imagine Michael has a better editor on his roster anyway, and by better he means more tolerable. Plus, tormenting Dean with all of his unfinished manuscripts is a gratifying break from the monotony. He doesn’t want to miss out on the noises Dean makes when he’s got him under his hands, either. _ Christ, Dean is the best lay. _

“Thanks,” Dean says, entering the kitchen where Castiel is pouring milk into his cereal bowl.

Castiel laughs, unashamed, like he can’t give a damn that Dean heard him, because he doesn’t. “Don’t let it go to your head. I don’t like you cocky.”

Dean glares, a sharp contrast to how he’d been begging just minutes ago. Dean’s obedience thrills him. Dean’s disobedience does too.

There’s an arbitrary line Dean drew to keep the dichotomy of their dynamic in check. Castiel sees it and how it separates the two Deans—the Dean that barges into his house like it’s his right and the Dean that comes to life when Castiel touches him. Castiel likes to ignore the line. Likes to tug until it’s a string and tug some more until the string is pulled right out of Dean’s grasp so he’s forced to look at his other self. Castiel likes the other Dean and he likes making  _ this _ Dean confront him.

Castiel laughs again, loud and obnoxious just to see Dean’s eye twitch, and scoops a spoonful of CTC into his mouth. Sex always puts him in a good mood.

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner. Fit for champions,” Dean snarks.

Castiel’s eyes crinkle as he swallows. “Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean scowls at being dismissed—which is why Castiel did it—but turns to leave anyway, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll email you with notes on the new pages soon.”

“As soon as possible please. I’ll be waiting with bated breath, Dean.”

Castiel laughs around another spoonful as Dean grumbles the whole way out, watching Dean’s retreating form. He frowns around the same spoonful; Dean’s holding two manuscripts instead of one.

-

FROM: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
TO: castielnovak@gmail.com  
SUBJECT: Something New

Castiel, I’ve gone over your newest storyline. Let’s set up a time to discuss it.

-

FROM: winchevy@gmail.com  
TO: castielnovak@gmail.com  
SUBJECT: ???

You piece of shit. You ARROGANT piece of shit. You wrote about fucking me on the pages. The pages ARE about you fucking me on them. That’s some fucked up meta bullcrap, Cas. Are you fucking disappointed that it didn’t go as planned??!!

Fuck you. Get me real pages.

-

FROM: castielnovak@gmail.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: Something New

Of course, Mr. Winchester. Let me know when you’d like to come. You know I appreciate input.

-

FROM: castielnovak@gmail.com  
TO: winchevy@gmailcom  
SUBJECT: RE: ???

Settle, Dean, and tell me. Did you enjoy reading about it?


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s pride fills him like a sin as he steps onto the elevator at work. Part of it is he looks damn good in his get-up—pressed slacks, crisp shirt, fitted blazer—and part of it is knowing he helped grow this company from the ground up. The Milton family business used to run out of a one room office, back when Dean was their one intern. Now, Word Mil Publishing is a multi-million dollar machine, filling the shelves of bookstores with refined works. With art.

The ride from the lobby to the 37th floor stretches on. The Miltons have done well, and Dean has been there every step of the way. Has stacked more than his fair share of the bricks that make up this skyscraper. Dean’s the best at sussing out prolific writers and grooming them to reach their full potential. Over the years he has hand-selected and edited over half their best sellers. 

In fact, Dean’s the one who first vouched for Cas’ manuscript which put Word Mil on the map, right up there with the Big Five. Famous writers dump their publishers to have Dean as their editor, now. So, yeah, Dean’s fucking proud.

The elevator doors open onto their airy offices. Like most days, Dean is in before the receptionist, early enough that no one should be there yet. The pile of red hair splayed on one of the desks in the bullpen surprises him.

“Are you sleeping or just wishing you were?”

Anna lifts her head and a waterfall on fire shifts to frame her face. Her eyes are the kind of wide that comes with lack of sleep, the way they were when she and Dean pulled all-nighters to work on Word Mil’s very first novels. Dean winces in empathy.

“What I wish is for Death to come and cradle me in her sweet embrace.” Anna sounds just as exhausted as she looks.

Dean sets his messenger bag down by his feet and leans against the desk. “You think Death is a she?”

“I have to believe it. Only a woman would be gracious enough to deliver me from him,” she deadpans, lifting dainty hands to comb her fingers through locks that are always in place, even on early mornings like these.

“Michael again?”

Anna shoots a glare Dean takes no offence to. “It’s always Michael.” She tugs to work through an imaginary knot, and her face pinches at the sting. “Look!” She releases her hair and brandishes her arms over the desk. Computer, coffee stained mug, pen and notepad, but bare otherwise. Organised like Anna is. “He took my plaque.”

No golden name plate.

“He said our writers don’t get those so I shouldn’t be any different. Taking my office and exiling me with the interns is one thing, but  _ my plaque.  _ We got those made  _ together _ .”

“He’s your brother, An-”

“Don’t defend him. I get enough of that from Raphael.”

Dean sighs. He thought he and Sam were bad, but working closely with the Miltons lands him in the middle of an apocalyptic sibling rivalry. Moreso since Gabriel left; his impish disposition had a way of easing the tension. It’s an uncomfortable position for Dean, since they are all his bosses. 

Michael and Raphael are anyway. Raphael sticks to the business side of things, handling the money and the numbers—Dean hears him say  _ sales projection _ every other hour—but Michael is the one Dean reports to. He’s held the reins as head of the company since things took off.

Gabriel and Anna on the other hand resigned as active partners in order to pursue hot beach babes and writing, respectively.

“He is entirely without scruples, Dean. I don’t know how you don’t see that. You know he transferred Garth to a different book?”

“He changed your editor again?” Dean’s brows knit. 

Whatever hiccups Michael has about his sister’s pursuits shouldn’t affect the company’s productivity and—no, Michael must have a good reason. He’s always put Word Mil first. Things have been changing since Gabriel left, shifting in a conservative direction Dean doesn’t agree with, but that’s normal. Gabriel was chaotic—how he got the entire  _ Supernatural _ series out of Cas, Dean will never know. Michael must think a return to traditional works is fitting. Just like he must think there’s a project better suited to Garth.

“Who is it now?”

“Alphie,” Anna groans.

“ _ The new hire? _ ”

Anna groans again, and drops her face back onto the desk. “He’s never going to let me get this book done. He wants me back leading marketing.” She adds, “Like the good old days.”

“Hey, come on. I did good work when I was an intern. It won’t be that bad.”

Cheek still pressed into the tabletop, Anna tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She gives him a soft look. “You were always too good, Dean. We never deserved you.”

Near the horizon, the orange tinged sun spills in through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s too early for these earnest eyes to settle on him. This moment is too sober. 

When they first met, Dean recognised the love Anna harbors for stories as the same enthusiasm he grew up with, reading in the backseat of the Impala through the endless hours on the road. A friendship blossomed from the shared passion, and its weight is heavy in Anna’s words, now.

He says, “I will take that compliment.” He knows how to do that now. “And I will trade you my services.”

Anna sits up in one jerky motion, and throws her head back to cackle. “Let me talk to HR first,” she says, winking.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Ha, ha, Anna. You’ve got my editor-help when you need it, is what I mean.”

“So you’re in my corner?” She raises a perfect brow.

“I don’t pick sides. But I pick good manuscripts, and your first draft was crap but it was the kind of crap that can turn into something good.”

Anna shakes her head, smiling despite herself at the high praise. “You’re swamped as is.”

Dean presses his lips together; that’s true.

“Michael is going to keep piling it on, you know? Because he knows you’ll take it. Hell, you’ve been doing Gabriel’s job for half the year, now, and he—”

“We split those tasks.”

“Fair and square, I’m sure.”

Michael is busy running this place. So what if Dean cuts him some slack. Soon, Dean will be head of the editorial department, so he’ll be doing all of this anyway. Michael told him it might take time to formally offer Dean the position. There are politics involved when replacing one of the Miltons. It’s important to avoid the appearance of nepotism. Dean has been working here from the very beginning, just as long as Gabriel, but not everyone would see it that way. So if Dean has to wait a couple weeks-turned-months, so what? Dean has worked every long hour, put in the sweat, made the sacrifices. He’s earned this, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s rewarded with the opportunity to make positive changes in the department. He has so many ideas.

“Give Alphie a chance,” Dean says. “I vetted him myself before he got signed on. He’s good. I wanted him to shadow other editors longer but he  _ is _ good. Works hard. And you do have my help, off the clock, on the clock, under the clock in the supply closet. Whenever.”

It’s Anna who rolls her eyes this time. “Fine,” she sighs. “Only because after Saturday you’ll officially be managing the editors anyway.”

Dean tries to suppress the happy grin, but it’s not untrue, so he doesn’t try that hard.

Three hours later, Michael walks past the glass wall of Dean’s office. He gives Michael some time to arrive and settle in, before going to meet him; there are things they need to discuss. The launch of their latest SF. Whether they’re signing with the Martha Stewart-esque homemaker they met with last week. Et cetera.

The blinds are drawn, but a “come in” cuts through the boisterous laughter after Dean knocks. Michael is leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the desk and fingers laced, and Adam Milligan has a hip cocked against the desk, tossing one of Michael’s prized signed baseballs in the air.

Dean waits for the chatter to die down. Adam twists and glances at the doorway, letting out another laugh. “Hey, Dean.”

Dean smiles. Adam is one of the better junior-recently-turned-senior editors that they have, largely due to Dean’s mentorship.

“Dean-o!” Michael greets, a thousand watts beaming at him. “There’s my best guy. I was just telling Adam about how good a job you’re doing with the  _ Garden of Eden _ launch.”

“That’s all Ezekiel. Word Mil’s better with him as our lead SF author.”

“Dean,” Michael mock-admonishes. “You’re too modest. It might just be your biggest shortcoming.”

“Our greatest weaknesses are our greatest strengths,” Dean quotes, eyes crinkling in humour.

“Gordon Livingston.”

“Close.” Dean looks to Adam. “Endō said it first.”

Adam circles the desk, grinning, and walks towards Dean, clamping a hand down on his shoulder. “You make me a better me, Boss.” Backing out the door, Adam lobs the baseball. “Think fast, Mike.”

Once Adam is gone, and the ball is back on its mantel, Michael turns his computer on and says, “Since I’ve got you, Dean.”

That’s his cue to settle into one of the chairs opposite Michael, tablet at the ready; they need to touch base on a long list of projects, and it might take a while. 

“I want you to take over overseeing the  _ Hell Trials _ adaptations. I already sent a memo to Kevin from Translations saying you’d be seeing him today to get caught up.”

Dean schools his face to keep from grimacing. Being a team player got Word Mil this far. “I thought Alphie was handling that?”

“I had to shuffle some people around. It’s better this way.”

“Michael, I—”

Michael looks at Dean for the first time since he got his computer going. “Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s just that my plate’s full and I’m carrying Gabriel’s plate too, and that’s on top of Satur—”

“Ah yes, the Gala is this Saturday. You’re excited, I hope.” Michael arches his brows high and suggestive, a playful smirk at his lips.

Dean knows exactly what this expression means. On Saturday, Michael will announce that Dean is the new head of Editorial. “I am. Of course, I am.”

Michael says, “Good! I’m going to need you to get Novak to attend.”

Dean laughs like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s heard all week. It might be.

Michael doesn’t so much as smile. He continues to stare, unamused, as if Dean told him the Oxford comma is a hoax. “Dean?”

“Michael, you’re not... I gotta make sure we’re on the same page, here. You’re talking about  _ Castiel _ Novak?”

Michael looks up at the heavens in what Dean thinks of as exasperated fondness. “Do we have another Novak on our roster?”

“Cas doesn’t even come into the office, hasn’t since he signed his first contract with us, in what world do you think—”

“He’s your writer, Dean. You’re telling me you’re unable to manage him adequately?”

Dean bites his tongue. He is Castiel’s editor, not his handler.

“This is important for the company. Castiel is a big name, a household name, it will look good for us to have him there. It's a who's who of publishing, not just for us but for the other big houses. We need that feather in our cap.”

“I get that, but the odds are stacked against us, Michael. You know how Cas is.”

“I do know  _ who  _ Castiel is. I also know that our head editor should be able to take care of a simple task like this. Unless you’re not willing to put in the work. Do you not want this, Dean?”

“What? Of course, I do,” Dean says. “Michael, you  _ know _ I do.”

Michael smiles and Dean finds reassurance in the pearly whites. “You’re the best we’ve got, Dean. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

 

By lunch—which he works through—Dean’s exhausted, and by eight o’clock, he hasn’t gotten as much done as he’d like. Tomorrow promises its own fresh heap of urgent business so it’s shaping up to be a long night.

Dean leaves the office last, gearing up for the part of his day that he anticipates and dreads the most. He emailed with Cas earlier and they agreed Dean would stop by in the evening. But to convince Cas to attend a formal event, he’ll need reinforcements, which means he makes a stop at  _ Benny’s _ . 

The restaurant is a hole in the wall off a busy street, the sign faded and worn, a placeholder Benny’s been meaning to change since he put it up, but it’s bustling with people each time Dean stops by. It’s unsurprising; Benny makes a mean meal. Dean can taste spicy crawfish in the air as soon as he walks in, and his mouth waters the closer he gets to the kitchen, weaving through the cramped seats and loud patrons.

“Dean,” Benny says before bringing a wooden spoon to his mouth, tasting a white cream sauce, and holding two fingers up for Dean to give him a moment.

Waitstaff scurry past Dean, carrying platters on the way out and hollering orders on the way in, throwing Dean distracted  _ hello _ s and easy smiles. They all know Dean, here. 

The swinging doors let in the dining area’s raucous, and it tangles with the kitchen’s own cacophony. You need a special kind of constitution to work in the food industry.

Benny makes his way over, wiping his hands on a rag, a sous chef tending to the cauldron of sauce.

“Heyya, Benny.” Dean smiles, wide and genuine, as they gather each other into a tight hug. “It’s been a while.” He pats Benny’s back before drawing back.

“Let me get a look at you,” Benny says, holding Dean’s face in both hands. They smell of spices. “Too damn long, brother.” He taps him gingerly, a familiar gesture. “C’mon to the back.”

Dean follows Benny to his tiny office. The metal desk eats most of the floor and filing cabinets take up the walls, but Benny seems right at home and he carves out a space for Dean, offering him a seat.

“You don’t come to Charlie’s place anymore,” Benny accuses without bite.

Dean sighs and shakes his head at nothing in particular. “It’s the job, man.”

“All work and no play is making you dull, Dean.”

He cracks a smile. “You’re pulling your punches. Come on, lay it on me.”

“I’ll leave that to Charlie. She’s livid. She threatened to hack you and ‘do some damage’ six times.”

“Since I made it, last month? That’s not so bad.”

Benny suppresses a smirk. “Nah, per shindig.”

He runs a hand over his face and afternoon stubble, and sinks into his chair. “She’d do it, too.”

“I remember ‘09.”

He grunts and shivers, eyes squeezed shut against the memory of humiliation.

“Now, I don’t mean to make a sad man miserable, but the last time you made it out for weekly beers and pizza was three months ago, not one.”

“You shitting me?” Dean asks, sitting up. “Alright, this Friday— Is it even still on Fridays?” Benny nods, and smiles with teeth. “I’ll make it happen. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”

“Is it that fancy promotion that’s got you all—” Benny must see guilt written on his face. “They haven’t given it to you, yet? Dean, there’s—”

“‘Some bad juju there.’ I know you think so, Benny. You’ve said it a thousand times since—”

“Since you took that unpaid internship in college to run coffee orders at that godawful cafe I used to work at, I know. And I’ve been right each time.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s one of my authors.”

“The good looking, famous one, still?”

Dean blushes, and creases his brow to feign confusion. “Who?”

Benny clicks his tongue. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. The one who wrote those  _ Supernatural  _ books. You used to fangirl about him, before you started losing your marbles.”

“My marbles are intact.”

“You called him good looking yourself.” Benny looks at the ceiling. “The exact phrase might have been, ‘gorgeous and devastatingly handsome.’ Redundant, if you ask me. A truly good editor would have caught that.”

“Bite me.”

Benny laughs, a jovial, comforting sound and, yeah, Dean’s gonna make Friday happen one way or another, because he misses this. Misses going home to  _ people _ that aren’t works of fiction instead of his quiet apartment. Besides, Charlie’s scary.

“Knock knock.” Sorento, a tall man with a deep tan appears at the doorway. “Hey, Dean, I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“I didn’t know you were here at all,” Dean replies, face pinched.

“Right. Just wanted to tell you that the nine o’clock party of fifteen made it early.”

Benny smiles. “Alright. The crew knows what to do.” 

Once the guy leaves, Dean narrows his eyes at Benny. “You using, again?”

“No, Dean,” Benny says and when Dean’s look hardens he repeats, “No, I promise.”

“But you hired him back?”

“He does a good job.”

“He always gets you roped up in shit you don’t need roping in, Benny.”

“Not this time.”

Dean appraises Benny, searches for a note of uncertainty. Or deceit. “Okay. Yeah, okay, you’ve been doing good. We’re—  _ I’m _ proud of you.”

“I got you the goods, by the way,” Benny says, smiling. “Half a dozen, all boxed up and ready to go.”

Dean’s face lights up. “You’re a godsend.”

“ _ Anything _ for Good Looking, I guess.” Benny winks.

“It only took him one to get hooked.”

“Oh yeah, and I bet you like supplying.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says, flustered by Benny’s snickers. “At least this way, I can get something out of it.”

Benny presses his lips together, a grin teasing the corners.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

They catch up some more before Dean stands to leave. Benny asks him to stay and eat.

Dean salivates at the offer. “Can’t. Not enough hours in the day, you know how it is.”

“I figured. That’s why I bagged your favourite jambalaya to go.”

With a seriousness that startles them both, Dean says, “You’re my best friend, Benny.”

Benny promises not to tell Charlie, smiling all the while.

 

Dean jogs up the walkway to Cas’ house. The nondescript brown box, heavy in his hand, is his only bargaining chip. He picked up his fair share of negotiation skills over the years, but what good are they when dealing with someone like Cas? Not that there’s anyone  _ like _ Cas.

He uses the key he made with his old casting kit—the one he needed back when he couldn’t afford to be an upstanding citizen if he wanted Sam to eat from all four food groups. Cas had a habit of not answering the door. The first time Dean let himself in might also have been the first time Cas looked at him with something other than disinterest.

The distinct smell of sex hits Dean as soon as he cracks the door open, which makes sense because there are bodies, naked and writhing. Fingers digging into flesh and lips brushing against skin. The back of the couch blocks some of what is happening from view, but two heads of wavy hair bob as they lavish over a standing man’s cock.

The strawberry blonde leans back, to the brunette’s hungry pleasure, and her mouth falls open around a muted sound. It’s one of the Amelias, a pair of girls that arrived at Cas’ a few times as he left. If she’s here that means… Yeah, her thighs squeeze around the head of a fourth person, laying on their back. Another woman, the  _ other  _ Amelia.

Thicker thighs, ones that belong to a man straddling Amelia—the one eating pussy, not the one giving head—at the waist. There’s a hand buried in his shaggy hair, and fingers knuckle deep in his ass. They drag out, slow, almost lazy and Dean—Dean recognises those fingers. Has licked them until they were slick enough to tease his hole, has sucked them clean of his own come.

Cas speaks then, and Dean’s ears finally tune in. Skin slapping. The obscene noise slick makes. There’s moaning, a chorus of voices, high and deep, hoarse and sharp, speckled with pants and laboured breathing, but mostly, for Dean, there’s Cas’ rasp. 

“You want to taste her?” The deep timber reaches Dean at the front door like a touch.

Shaggy Hair nods and shuffles back, all languid movements and heavy limbs, until his back is flush with the kneeling Amelia. Cas guides his head down and Shaggy Hair follows. Cas has been fucking the other Amelia— _ obscene noise slick makes _ —but he stops now, pulls out to feed his cock to Shaggy Hair, who whimpers as he accepts what is offered.

“I know,” Cas says. “I’ve enjoyed how she tastes too.” 

He pets the man’s hair, carding strong fingers through long locks with both hands now, and hums encouragements. It’s soft in a way Cas has never been with Dean. Cas moves an arm to finger the other Amelia; she’s pleased, if the muffled sounds coming from the general vicinity of her head, still caught between the first Amelia’s thighs, are anything to go by.

Dean drags his eyes away from Cas’ disappearing and reappearing cock and up to his face. He’s met with startling blue, and lips that slowly curl into a smirk.

Cas winks at Dean and mouths  _ watch _ . He says, “You ready for more?” 

Shaggy Hair nods and whines as he take the last few inches of Cas’ cock.

“You can stay or you can go, but you can’t leave the door open,” the brunette says, leaving Blond Amelia to suck the cock in front of them on her own.

Cas raises his brow and tilts his head, that ever present smirk taunting Dean: she’s talking to him. He nods dumbly, looking away from the scene to shut the door. If he was smarter he’d be locking it from the outside, but he’s a fool for coming here in the first place. He keeps his eyes trained on the rug, wondering if they have any qualms about staining it, and ignoring the jump of his cock, and the heat in his cheeks, and the sweat beading—

“What’s wrong, Lisa? Don’t want the neighbours to see?” Cas laughs and the man who’s standing joins him, adding, “She’s real modest.”

Lisa rolls her eyes and nudges Amelia’s shoulder. The latter pulls back from the dick with a lewd pop, while rocking her hips against the face of the other Amelia. She pants, “I didn’t know you had more people coming, Castiel. I want first turn.”

“You can have whatever you like, One,” Cas answers.

“Thanks but...euh…” Dean’s still not looking at him, but he knows Cas’ eyes crinkle with amusement. “I’m here on business not—” Dean waves his hand at the group. “Well, y’know.”

“Next time.” Amelia  _ One _ , apparently, smiles and gets distracted with kissing and biting Lisa’s shoulder.

“Business? I didn’t realise we had affairs this evening.”

Dean whips his head to glare at Cas. “We made an appointment.”

“Oh yes, I’m vaguely remembering,” Cas says while he fingers and facefucks other people right in front of Dean, a touch breathless. “I’m a little busy right now, as you can see.”

“ _ Cas _ ,” Dean warns, a joke to his own ears. Things are kicking off great.

“You’re such a good worker, Dean,” Cas mock praises. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

“The  _ novel _ , Cas.”

There’s a snort and it’s impossible to pinpoint who it comes from, but Dean hates them all.

Cas raises a disbelieving brow at him and Dean shifts under his gaze, hiding the brown box behind the back of the couch with as much subtlety as he can. As if Cas hadn’t already seen it. As if Cas can’t read him like a kid’s book.

“Keep being good, Dean, and wait for me in my office. I’ll be with you shortly.”

When he’s at the base of the stairs, Cas says, “Leave the eclairs,” and Dean does.

Dean can hear them fucking while he waits, leaning against Cas’ large desk. Is that guy still sucking Cas? Or did Cas go back to fucking Amelia  _ Two _ ? Maybe they’ve changed positions altogether. There was plenty of shuffling around twenty minutes ago. The coffee table that had been pushed against the fireplace when he came in, was maybe moved again. Maybe Cas is buried in someone new.

Dean doesn’t have a problem with that, except for the fact that it’s eliciting vivid memories of Cas buried in  _ him _ . Fuck, Dean wants that all the time. Wants Cas’ mouth on him, licking, biting, only pausing to say something filthy so Dean flushes pink for fresh new reasons.

Dean adjusts his hardening dick again, and focuses on what he’ll tell Cas.

He gets an earful of happy orgasms echoing out from the living room. They don’t slow down; there’s more shuffling around, and more moaning.

He should leave. Cas is taking too damn long.  _ Shortly, my ass _ . He made it to the top of the staircase three times, but he stayed every time. It’s because he needs to get Cas to agree to attend the gala, but that isn’t the only reason. He’s been waiting for an hour and Cas can’t just treat people like—

“You’ve been so patient for me,” Cas says from the doorway, naked, his half-erect cock bobbing.

He takes a sloppy bite out of an eclair, using his clever tongue to seek out the cream and custard that end up on his face. Dean can’t look away. Cas sucks sticky sweetness from his palm and up the side of his thumb, before taking it into his mouth and giving it a long suck.

Cas notices Dean notice.

He drags an elegant finger through the chocolate strip on top of the eclair, making a show for Dean who swallows and swears— _ swears  _ he can taste the pastry on his own tongue.

“Well?” Cas asks, wiping his hand on the soft part of his stomach once he’s had all the chocolate. “You wanted to discuss something.”

Dean’s vibrating with want, barely able to focus on the matters at hand, and there  _ are  _ matters at hand. Important ones. “Th-the book. ‘M here for an update. Actual pages.”

“No you’re not.”

Cas pushes off the doorframe and stalks over to Dean. He can’t scramble back with the heavy desk right behind him, but tries to anyway. Cas’ strides are long, purposeful, and predatory. He doesn’t stop until he’s right up in Dean’s face, invading his personal space, forcing him to lean back and swallowing that distance, too.

He ghosts one hand over Dean’s hard-on, and Dean’s knees threaten to give out.

“You don’t lie to me often but I don’t like when you do.” Cas pauses, tilts his head. “You’re bad at it.”

“I’m not—” Dean shuts right up when Cas squeezes him without a hint of gentleness.

“You only bring me these,” Cas lifts the eclair, not that Dean could look away from blue eyes if he wanted to, “when you want to barter.” Cas’ gaze is appraising, like if he looks hard enough he’ll see the truth before Dean tells him. Maybe he will. 

“Your love for those things is excessive and unhealthy,” Dean chokes out as Cas rubs him through the coarse material of his slacks. It’s not often that Dean is dressed while Cas is not. That doesn’t mean he holds any sort of power.

“That is beside the point, Dean.”

Dean nods, lids falling closed. The pleasure builds fast, and disappears as Cas steps back, taking the perfect pressure at Dean’s bulge with him. Dean’s eyes pop open, and narrow when he sees Cas’ smug smirk.

“Go on,” Cas prompts, easy amusement wrinkling the sides of his eyes.

“There’s the Rising Writers Gala this weekend and I’d like you there.”

“Because you think my dazzling personality will impress the guests?” Cas deadpans. “I don’t attend these. They are bromidic, and littered with exactly the type of people I abhore.”

“Make an exception.” Dean’s tone hardens. He needs this to happen.

Cas says, voice lilting, “Tell me where this is coming from and I’ll consider it.”

“Michael wants you to go.”

“That isn’t new.”

“It’s different this time.”

“Dean, I do not appreciate you beating around the bush. Tell me, now.”

Dean shifts, uncomfortable with his dick straining against his pants. Cas continues to peer at him like he enjoys watching him squirm.

“I know what this is,” Cas finally says, a taunt if Dean’s ever heard one. “You need to show off your biggest seller, don’t you?” There’s gotta be confirmation on his face because Cas continues, even more sure. “This is about getting Gabe’s old job.”

“Don’t talk like it’s wrong for me to have ambitions just because you have none,” Dean snaps. 

Cas scoffs, faking indignation. “I don’t think it’s wise of you to broach the subject of morality, Dean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re using me like a ticket to further your career.” Cas laughs. “You’re hardly righteous.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Careful, Cas, I might think you’re hurt and capable of feeling a singular emotion not triggered by sex or drugs.”

Cas dons the look he gets when Dean says something he likes. “Don’t forget eclairs.” Cas scoops up a small amount of custard with the same finger as before and holds it up to Dean’s mouth. “Have some.”

And Dean does. He wraps his lips around Cas’ digit, tight around the first knuckle, and sucks off what’s there, tasting sweetness and vanilla.

Cas smiles, so damn pleased with himself, and feeds Dean some of the chocolate next, using two fingers this time and fucking them in and out of his mouth at a languid pace. 

“It’s curious, that’s all,” Cas says. “Usually I’m the one using you.” He punctuates the statement by pushing down on Dean’s tongue.

Dean pulls off and bats away the string of saliva still connecting them. “I’m  _ not _ .” Using Cas? Being used? 

Cas hums, disbelieving but unbothered.

“What I’ve wanted from you— _ for  _ you,” Dean corrects. “From day one, is for your words to be out. In the world. Accessible. I want people to hear the story you—or your agent—pitched. For you to be the one to tell it.”

“I’m the only one who can.” Pompous ass.

“That so, huh? You never write.” 

Cas’ smile, equal parts carnal and corrupt, splits his face. “Careful, Dean,” Cas mimics with a distinct note of predator. “You’re becoming too brazen for my liking. We both know I’m also the best writer you’ve ever had.”

“You’re an arrogant piece of shit, you know that?”

Impossibly, Cas’ grin widens. “You’re not wrong. But neither am I.”

They standoff, eyes locked and unblinking, Dean’s dick hard, Cas’ hardening. Dean is so goddamn adamant not to be the one who gives in, but Cas’ gaze on him feels heavy and things crack when pressure is applied. 

The exact moment Dean’s about to concede, there’s a flicker across Cas’ face, like he knows he’s won, and he says, “Alright. I can be persuaded. I’m a reasonable man, Dean.”

Dean stiffens. Cas complying is what he wants, but it’s dangerous.

“I expect things in return, of course. A trade.”

He sighs, resigned, relieved, and because of the look Cas is giving him, exhilarated. “What do you want?”

Cas pops the last of the eclair in his mouth and chews, pursing his lips in thought. “The name of where you get these,” Cas demands.

Cas isn’t kidding around. He’s wanted to know this since Dean first brought him some in an attempt at extending an olive branch. Dean stumbled on valuable intel, and he wasn’t dumb enough to give it up. The promise of more eclairs got Cas to hand over that first outline. The small bursts of work Dean weaselled out of the writer were due to the coveted pastry. They’ve been removed from the menu so Benny makes them special when Dean asks.

“Deal.”

Cas laughs. “I said  _ things _ , Dean. Plural. I expect you to pay more attention to detail considering your profession. I’d request another editor but you’re gorgeous when you’re sucking my cock. I wouldn’t give that up.”

“I’m not blowin’ you  _ for _ anything,” Dean scowls.

Cas laughs again, smug and irritating, and licks the stickiness off his fingers wantonly. “No one is saying that. Just because you like to be called a whore doesn’t mean you are one. But you are beautiful with those lips around me.” 

Cas caresses Dean’s pinking face and thumbs at his lips. When Dean parts them, Cas tuts, so he stays still while Cas traces his mouth reverently.

“You want to, don’t you, Dean? You want to get on your knees for me.”

Dean’s knees bend but strong hands catch him, at the shoulder, at the elbow, hot like a brand.

“Not right now,” Cas chuckles. “We’re negotiating.”

“Let’s multitask.” Dean’s on the floor, mouthing at Cas’ dick, digging fingers into Cas’ thighs, before the words are out.

“There he is,” Cas praises, and it  _ is _ praise, his own twisted version of it.

Between licks, Dean says, “I’m going to show you.”

“Show me what?” Cas prompts, voice amused and too even for Dean’s taste.

He takes Cas in his mouth, not all of him, but as much he can manage right off the bat, and swallows. It’s abrupt, and forces a loud grunt out of Cas. Dean pulls off just as quick.

He has to crane his head back from his position on the floor to look up, the tip of Cas’ dick warm against his cheek. “That I’m better than Shaggy Hair.”

The blue of Cas’ eyes is always to be marvelled at, but right now it’s brilliant, embedded with something Dean might call pride if he didn’t know better. 

“Is that what you’re going to do?” 

Dean turns his head the inch it takes for Cas’ cock to pop back in his mouth, and works his tongue against the slit, making Cas’ breath hitch. He smirks.

“Here’s my proposition,” Cas starts. “I get to list my demands for agreeing to attend the Pretentious Fuckery until you can make me come. Shouldn’t take long if you’re so good, correct?”

Dean pulls off, taking the flavour of Cas’ precome with him, and what might be the taste of the guests in the living room. There’s still at it; skin slaps skin louder than the happy shouts. 

“You talk fast.”

“Don’t be rude, Dean. My cadence is impeccable.” 

Dean frowns. “And you came downstairs, in the last hour.”

“I didn’t.”

Dean’s eyes widen. It’s not significant, and he won’t examine what it doesn’t mean. 

Cas sighs, over the top and putting his whole body into it, making his erection bump Dean’s mouth. “Fine. Each minute I get to make one request.”

“And you’ll behave at the Gala?”

“You mean the way you do for me?” Cas smirks. Dean stares. “I will not cause a scene.”

“You’re on.”

Cas twists to glance at the grandfather clock by the door, and when he’s looking at Dean again, the game begins.

_ Minute One _

Dean holds Cas’ gaze; it’s how he likes it if the way Cas ordered him to in the past is anything to go by. Or the times Cas kept a vice grip in his hair with an unspoken promise of punishment if he dared look away. 

He doesn’t take more than the head at first, but just that is pleasantly heavy on his tongue as he teases gasps from Cas. Cas licks his lips wet and shiny, eyes full of mischief as he gears up for whatever hell he no doubt has planned for Dean. 

To distract, Dean gives him the barest scrape of teeth on the sensitive underside and—

“ _ Fuck _ .”

_ Minute Two _

“You’re very good at this, Dean. But you already know that, what you want is to prove it. You want to show me you’re the best little cocksucker there ever was. You just might be. I know you’re the prettiest.”

Dean takes more of Cas’ cock, as desperate for it as Cas panting above him.

“You look stunning like this. Right where you belong. On your knees for me, you make such a picture.” 

Fists ball at the edge of his vision; he hasn’t looked away from Cas yet.

“This might just be one of my favourite sights, Dean. I want to paint it. And you’re going to let me. Might take me awhile to get your lips perfect, and they  _ are _ perfect like this, wrapped around my cock.” 

_ Minute Three _

Cas’ breaths shorten and he gasps out every other word, but that’s still too much talking, so Dean hollows his cheeks and sucks long and hard. Cas rocks his hips into Dean’s mouth before catching himself and stilling, and Dean can’t help the smug expression that crinkles the sides of his eyes. He’s winning. 

Cas leers down at him, from high above. “Baby,” Cas says, and Dean chokes at the pet name, dick bumping the back of his throat. “That’s what you call it right? The black car you love so much. I get to drive it.”

Fuck no. No one messes with his wheels. No one drives Baby. He pulls off to speak, to object, to cuss Cas out, but strong hands move to the back of his head and pull him right back onto Cas’ cock. 

_ Minute Four _

Dean takes all of Cas. He presses his nose against soft curls, where Cas’ scent is most intoxicating, and swallows while looking up the length of Cas’ chest, straight into dazed blues.

“Fuck, fuck, Dean, fuck. That’s it, sweetheart. You feel so good. Giving me that pretty mouth of yours to use. Bet you’re not this needy with anyone else, are you, Dean? No, this— _ yes _ —is just for me. You’re just for me. So fucking eager to please  _ me _ . My handsome cocksucker, my gorgeous little whore. And you know it’s true. Do you feel pretty blowing me, Dean?”

Dean nods.

“That’s it. I bet you’d be striking in lingerie. Would you do that for me? Wear panties for me, Dean?” Cas growls as a thought visibly occurs to him. “To the Gala. Under your expensive tuxedo. In front of your fancy friends. But you won’t belong to them, Dean. You’re always mine. We’ll both know it and the lace will just be proof— _ shit _ .”

_ Minute Five _

Cas’ rambling is unintelligible, but it fills the room with half words, choked sounds, and curses like it’s got a life of its own. Dean’s cock twitches at his accomplishment. It’s not often he gets to see Cas like this; the writer is maddeningly articulate and always composed, always in control, dictating pace, and rhythm, and  _ Dean _ . But in this moment—

“ _ Shit _ yes, fuck, you’re per— _ Dean _ .”

Cas comes slow, like it’ll last forever, and with a cracking moan that has Dean’s toes curling in his leather shoes. The first burst shoots down Dean’s throat, but he draws back to receive the rest on his fluttering tongue. It’s warm, and bitter in a way Dean likes, and some spills out over the brim of his lip.

Dean moves forward again, touches his nose to Cas and blinks up at him, lashes heavy and wet. Cas stares back, slack jawed, and nestled between Dean’s lips and on his tongue. All of Cas softens as he smiles, slow, lazy and content.

Cas rolls his hips once, making more come dribble out, and pulls out when Dean’s gentle sucking becomes too much.

Cas fixes Dean with a look he isn’t used to, something appreciative. Hands move from the back of his head to cradle his jaw, and Cas tracks a thumb through come, and across his lips. Dean lets him.

“Castiel, I want you.”

Dean look over to the door where a brunette stands in the nude, half hiding against Cas’ thigh. It’s the other Amelia. The one Cas fucked, the one he tasted.

Cas smiles, bright and genuine, and winks, without a trace of derision. “I’ll be down in a minute, Two.”

She rolls her eyes playfully and disappears, light footsteps padding down the stairs.

Dean gets to his feet in jerky motions. “She has a name you know,” he snaps. “You can’t just treat people like that.”

Cas raises a brow at him, looking stern, and like he’s privy to the punchline of a joke Dean hasn’t heard the set up for yet. “Whatever you say, Dean.” 

Cas moves for his belt, hooks a finger in a loop and pulls Dean flush to his own chest, and Dean’s crotch right into his waiting, cupped hand. Dean moans at the touch, rough but more than welcome. This close to Cas, their slight height difference is exacerbated; but looking down, he doesn’t feel even a little of the control he had when he was on his knees.

Cas tilts his head nearer and scrapes teeth up Dean’s throat, bites his jaw, and licks his chin where he catches come on his tongue. Dean gets to taste Cas all over again when they kiss, sloppy and wet, interrupted by the broken sounds Cas draws out as he strokes Dean.

“Do we have an agreement?” Cas asks, speaking against his skin.

Dean blinks, trying to focus, and yelps when Cas’ grip tightens at the head. Cas goes right back to working him with agile hands, pace steady and fast.

“Answer me, Dean. We’re multitasking, remember?”

Dean nods, eyes squeezed shut now. “We’ve got a deal.”

“I play nice at this Dumbfest and you’ll...”

“I’ll tell you where I get the eclairs.” Dean gasps as Cas quickens the pace of his hand on him with each new stipulation. “Let you paint me. Let you drive— That’s going too far.”

Cas stills. 

“Don’t— Don’t fucking stop, Cas,” Dean whines.

“The deal’s off.”

“No, no, fine. You get to drive Baby, but I swear to God, if one scratch—” Cas pinches a nipple and Dean chokes. 

“What’s the last condition?”

“I’m, I’ll, I—panties. At the gala. I’ll wear some.”

“Yes, you will.” Cas brings his mouth to Dean’s ear, lips brushing the shell as he says, “I can hardly wait.”

Dean comes, shouting Cas’ name. 

He trails after Cas down the stairs, and the living room is a study in debauchery when they enter it. Cas abandons Dean at the last step to join in, his mouth going to a pert ass raised high into the air. Somehow Dean’s the filthiest in his come-soaked boxers. They stick and shift as he walks to the front door. 

Cas says something Dean doesn’t quite make out—not that it matters, because it wasn’t addressed to him; Cas is done with him now—and giggles taunt Dean all the way out the door. Cold jambalaya waits for him on the passenger seat of his car. At least he can eat it in peace back at his place. No one’s there.

-

FROM: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Hey Dean,

The outline is coming along. I’m taking into consideration what we spoke of.

Talk soon

-

FROM: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
TO: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Zeke,

I have access to your writing file. You haven’t been in there in a week.

Talk now.

-

FROM: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Maybe the document is not updating properly?

-

FROM: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
TO: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Listen, man. I know the launch for the first book has you freaked out. It’s going to go great. You’re doing great. You’re going to figure out these plot points, but you gotta put in the time.

-

FROM: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

I think what I maybe probably need is just to step away from it for a while. Besides, my agent has me going to events every other day. I can’t write tired.

-

FROM: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
TO: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Listen to me very carefully, Gadreel. If I don’t see any attempt at progress when I check the file again tonight, you and me will have words. And then I’m going to do what I did last time. Got it?

-

FROM: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

!!! You’re right! I just have to buckle down.

-

FROM: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
TO: gezekiel@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Garden of Eden: Book 2- outline

Yeah you do. I’m moving up our next meeting, too.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  

Dean has too much work to do to allow himself a Friday night at Charlie’s, but he goes anyway and he has such a good time that he doesn’t let himself regret it. They drink too many beers and eat too much pizza and Benny brings up stories from when Dean and Charlie loitered in the cafe he worked at. Charlie digs out a video game they spent hours playing in her sweet RA dorm, so it’s late when Dean leaves, a cramp in his side, and well-meaning threats in Charlie’s happy voice following him down her walkway. 

He’s halfway home, not thinking about how the evening has set him back workwise, when he realises he left his jacket at Charlie’s. Dean smiles; it’s worth it, and he’s content. Every few yards, streetlights coat him and his car in a muted glow and Dean counts a blessing.

He spends Saturday playing catch up: reads a potential manuscript, follows up on details for the  _ Garden of Eden _ launch, does a first round of edits for one of his writers’ newest chapter. By the time Dean is at Cas’ door to pick him up for the Gala—early in case Cas is wearing something ridiculous, or nothing—he doesn’t know where the day went. 

Something possesses Dean to knock, and Cas might have been waiting on him because within seconds the door swings open. Dean half expects Cas to fuck with him and wear the ripped jeans that hang low on his hips and a soft hoodie; his usual get up of choice. But Cas is wearing  _ not  _ that. And he’s striking. 

The tux is bold in navy and made even more so with the blue and white paisley printed dress shirt underneath. The obnoxious velour bowtie hangs undone around his neck. But it’s the fit that catches Dean’s attention. Dean’s eyes travel up the slopes of what he knows, first-hand, is Cas’ toned body. Cas’ waist is trim and his shoulders are broad, and the jacket does the sinful job of highlighting both. Dean takes Cas in, all hard lines and angles that look as good right now as they feel pressing Dean into flat surfaces.

“Are you wearing them?” Cas startles him, eyes gleaming and fixed on Dean, lips turned upwards knowingly.

Dean scoffs; of course Cas can’t greet him like a normal person. “Hello to you, too, Cas.” Dean enters the house without invitation, brushing past Cas, shoulders checking.

Cas laughs behind him and shuts the door quietly. The living room is customarily messy, but void of naked men and women.

“Welcome to my home, Dean,” Cas says, voice of a host with the most. “To your right is where I sit, to your left is where I eat.” He gestures to the couch and the archway that leads to the kitchen. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns to face Cas fully. He’s unprepared for the sight of him a second time. Yeah, still fucking gorgeous.

“Well?” Cas urges, looking at him like he can see them under his tux.

Dean pinks up, and breathes out the air he kept trapped. “A deal’s a deal, but you owe me twenty bucks plus shipping fees.”

Cas beams, lips spreading like the Chesire cat’s. With absolute certainty, he says, “You don’t expect me to believe that you didn’t already own a pair, do you Dean?”

Pink turns red and it’s enough of an answer for Cas, because he dons a smug expression that Dean wants to erase. Cas turns to the mirror on the wall and ties a neat bow at his neck, long fingers working steadily as his eyes stay on Dean’s in the glass.

“Didn’t think you’d take my word for it,” Dean admits, uncomfortable and right where he wants to be under Cas’ gaze. 

“You do have a habit of doing what you’re told, Dean.” Cas’ smirk widens. “You’re welcome to offer me proof, however.” Cas gives the bow a final tug, testing how secure it is, and turns to Dean who manages a sharp inhale in the brevity of their broken eye contact. “Would you like to show me, Dean? Is that it?” 

Dean’s eyes narrow above his flushed cheeks. “Not particularly, no.”

Cas chuckles and finally looks away, paying Dean little mind as he smooths his hands down the front of his suit. “You know where the restroom is, if you’d like to take them off. It’s no fun for me when you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

Dean moves his weight onto the other foot, and the lace of his underwear shifts with him, making his blush spread from his face, down his neck, shoulders, and—

“I thought as much,” Cas says, like the confirmation had been for Dean all along. Like he wants Dean aware of his own desires. Asshole.

Cas looks up and strolls over casual as anything, deft hands adjusting cufflinks. Dean shuffles back; he won’t fall for a red herring. The banister’s top knob digs between his shoulder blades when he collides with it, tense muscles bunching. Cas is too close, too consuming; crowding him. Dean props an unsteady foot on a stair, and Cas takes advantage of the space between his legs, like it’s his right. Gentle hands contrast with the mischief curling Cas’ lips as he holds Dean’s waist and presses his solid body into him.

All Dean can see is blue and  _ blue _ and bluer with Cas’ eyes locked on his, smirk still in place. Cas slides his hands over the swell of his ass, slow and easy like time is the last thing on his mind, and gropes until he finds what he’s looking for. He traces the outline of Dean’s panties through the thick fabric.

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

Dean doesn’t know what he means by it, maybe nothing at all, and maybe Cas gets that because he just hums in response. 

He trails the hem of the panties, from the center back, over Dean’s hips and to the front. Cas leans closer, too close for Dean to keep staring into endless blue so he lets his eyes close, lips parting to take whatever Cas will give him.

Dean shakes in anticipation, but like everything else with Cas tonight, what comes next comes at a crawling pace. Cas’ lips, soft and featherlight, brush the corner of his mouth. 

Lips catching on Dean’s, Cas says, “I’m ready to go now.” 

Cas is halfway out the door, and Dean is all the way outside of himself.

“Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Dean stumbles after Cas, adjusting himself before exiting the house. He locks the front door, since Cas doesn’t bother to, and when he turns he finds Cas leaning against Baby. On the driver’s side.

“What did you say when you first arrived, Dean?” Cas asks, eyes twinkling even in the setting sun’s weak lighting. “A deal’s a deal. That means I get to drive it.”

“It’s a  _ her.  _ I mean  _ she _ ’s a her,” Dean’s voice shrills and he comes to a stop in front of Cas. “You were going to give me an out before,” he says seriously.

“That was for your pretty panties, Dean. Not the car,” Cas lilts, enjoying himself way too fucking much.

Dean stares Cas down, taking full advantage of their height difference, but it only gets Cas grinning, a big gummy smile.

“I won’t budge on any other stipulation,” Cas states, unbending.

Dean groans not unlike a child, hands over the keys, and rounds the front of the Impala, stomping all the while.

In the car, Cas fiddles with every setting. He moves the front bench back, then forward. He activates the wipers for a few useless swipes. He changes the radio station five times. And he watches Dean fume.

Cas finally reverses the car out of his driveway, braking jerkily a couple times. 

“I swear to fucking God, Cas,  _ one more time _ and I’ll—”

“Dean, please. I am familiarising myself with this fine vehicle.”

It’s a taunt but Cas does drive properly afterwards so Dean feels like he’s won that one. He still splays his hand on the dash and clutches his door handle as though that’ll keep Baby from falling apart.

He grinds his teeth all the way there, and when they arrive he grinds them more as he reluctantly insists to the valet that Cas will park the car. At least he can monitor Cas’ admittedly smooth driving. There’s no way he’s trusting some stranger who’s barely got his facial hair in order.

 

The Rising Writers Gala is a yearly event put on by the National Literary Society at the fine arts museum. The main hall—repurposed for the occasion—is grand in every sense of the word, with bar-style tables spaced evenly throughout, and a platform for a string quartet. Lux imprints the air like rich ink on paper. Lavish gowns brush the shiny floor, iridescent crystal fixtures glint above, and most guests are laughing the fake sort of laugh Dean forces himself to put up with. 

The Gala’s mission statement is to bring together high profile players from every facet of the industry to celebrate new talent. It’s really about networking and showing the competition how good you’re doing. Investors and media liaisons are invited for publishers and best-selling authors to rub shoulders with.

Dean isn’t naive. The publishing world isn’t just about telling stories. For most people it’s not about that at all, which is why the first thing Dean does once inside, after greeting the usher, is snatch two champagne flutes off a waiter’s tray.

“Thirsty, Dean?”

“You said you wouldn’t cause trouble,” Dean reminds him, a little nervously.

“Believe it or not, I keep my word, too.”

Dean does believe it, so he hands Cas a glass and takes a deep breath. “Just… follow my lead.”

Cas snorts and, at Dean’s glare, says, “Best behaviour, promise.”

He hoped to finish his drink before the first vulture got its hooks in Dean, but life doesn’t give you what you want, or what you need. Just dull chats about nothing. Cas looks bored, often glancing at the coat check counter, and streamlines his answers when posed a direct question. Dean fields most of them, and there’s a lot, what with Cas being… well Castiel Novak.

“You’re not chewing gum this time, Dean,” a voice chimes, off to the side. “Colour me impressed.”

Dean sighs and turns. “It’s too bad. I’d choke on gum if it meant getting away from you.”

Bela laughs, airy and annoying. “If you’re going to be nasty, limit yourself to closed doors, yeah?”

Dean’s ready with a retort, but she doesn’t hear it once she notices Cas. Cas, who pays them very little attention; instead, he’s searching the room for a waiter. 

She sidles up to him, turning her back on Dean. “Our mutual friend here has failed to introduce us,” she starts, flicking her eyes dismissively at Dean. “I’m Bela Talbot, Literary Agent.”

Cas offers a disinterested glance which he replaces with an artificial smile. Dean’s gotta give it to him, he does stay true to his word.

“Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Bela echos, and realisation dawns in slow motion. “Novak.”

There’s a beat of silence as Bela waits for confirmation she doesn’t need, and Cas won’t give.

“I’ve read your work. Perhaps like every person in the room.” Cue dulcet voice and innocent tuck of a curl behind her ear. “Your use of imagery is truly out of this world. I felt so connected to your characters. I see a lot of the Righteous Man in myself, honestly.” She drapes a light hand on Cas’ shoulder.

Cas sighs imperceptibly; Dean would have missed it if his eyes weren’t peeled on the writer.

“Do you?” Cas asks. “I’ve never heard that before.” Cas uttered those exact words at least half a dozen times tonight.

Bela giggles and slithers closer, her tight black dress accenting the sway of her hips. Bela is gorgeous, Dean knows, and if her soul wasn’t hellbound he could be seduced. Any man or woman in the appropriate range on the Kinsey scale would. Except Cas. Cas sees through everyone—right through Dean—and can see through her. He has to.

“ _ Supernatural _ was genre-defining,” Bela intones, laying on the charm. The British accent grates like a key in the Impala’s side. “I understand you’ve received a lot of backlash for ending the series after five books, but I get it.”

“Mhmm.” Another one of Cas’ go-tos tonight.

“People, they want more of a good thing, but the story has reached its natural, genius end.” 

Cas stares, smile still in place, but twitching.

“What you need, and what I could provide, is an agent who can take care of you.“

Dean’s jaw ticks. “Bela, if you’re gonna try to suck gold out his dick, at least be subtle about it.”

Her eyes narrow into determined slits.

“Actually,” Cas articulates, going off script. “Please, Bela, tell me more. You’d have handled the media differently?” What the fuck is he doing?

“I’d have handled the media correctly. Not the shoddy services you were rendered.”

Dean gapes as Cas engages with the  _ thing _ Hell spat out. They talk shop and they talk books and then talk  _ Cas _ ’ books, which Cas usually dislikes, but he doesn’t seem to mind when his conversation partner is wearing something slinky.

Cas lets out a loud laugh that rubs him the wrong way—it doesn’t sound right at all—and says, “It has been lovely talking to you, Bela, but it’d be rude to keep you to myself all night. Why don’t you give me your card?”

He can’t believe his ears, and when Cas accepts the card Bela slips him, he can’t believe his eyes. He’ll get both checked out.

Cas leans even closer to Bela, placing his cheek against hers, and kisses air. Cas spent the evening interacting with others as little as possible and now he’s trying to get lucky. That’s fine. Cas can do what he wants. Cas  _ does  _ do what he wants.

Dean’s chest cavity fills with rocks and drops to his feet when Cas winks at him, still pressed against Bela. 

She’s barely out of earshot when Cas bumps his shoulder with Dean’s, leans in close and says, “Can you believe that? Playing along was the only way to get rid of her.”

Dean is floating. Dean is  _ smug _ . A little possessive, maybe, but he doesn’t think of that. “Bela’s a real piece of work.”

“Glass houses, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. It isn’t untrue. “A bitch then,” he says, watching the throngs of people. Everyone is chattering and Dean can pick out the few who are listening.

“Oh yes, definitely that.” Cas walks in one direction, an artful stroll that blends him with a crowd he doesn’t quite fit into.

Dean follows, falling into stride beside him. “Gotta give it to her, at least she ain’t boring.”

“Is that a complaint on my company, tonight?”

“Nah, Cas. You’re a delight,” Dean laughs, pressing their shoulders together in a soft imitation of Cas. “But this isn’t my ideal Saturday night either.”

Cas studies him. “These are your people.” He waves at the room in a large swooping motion. “The literary community.”

“They’re as much yours as they are mine.”

“No.” Cas makes a sharp left and tugs him into a vacant spot at the bar before slotting in beside him.

“Right, Cas, I forget. You’re above us all.” Dean turns and leans his elbows against the bar. The music picks up and people pair off on the dance floor, all white teeth and fake tans, slicked back hair and glimmering jewelry.

“You think I think I’m better than you?” Cas raises a brow, permanent smile exactly where Dean last saw it.

“I think you act like you do.”

Cas squints. It’s what he does when he’s trying to understand something. He orders drinks and Dean goes back to watching the dancing.

“I think everyone here is misguided,” Cas explains, gentle like he doesn’t reproach them for it. “They are all after the superficial, and when they get it they don’t realise it’s meaningless, because that’s what society has taught them.”

“Them. Not me, too, Cas? I’m flattered.”

Cas grins. “You’re definitely something, Dean.”

Cas holds up a shot glass for Dean and one for himself. Dean eyes the three layers of liquor and the dollop of whipped cream at the top.

“What is it?” he asks even though he’s already taken it, knows he’s gonna drink it.

“I had the waiter make them special. They’re called blowjobs. Look at that, this time we both get to have one.”

Dean chortles, lace hot on his skin. “Bottoms up.” 

Cas beams.

They toss them back and Cas takes his time licking whipped cream from his lips before he replaces the empty glasses with fresh drinks.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and tastes the whiskey. “Some are good people, you know.” The ones he works with are. He hasn’t seen Anna but she’s here somewhere. 

Cas turns to watch the dance floor, too. “And those who aren’t?”

At the edge of the designated dancing area, a balding copyright lawyer plucks an hors d’oeuvre off a waiter’s tray. He takes a bite, his bird-like face pinching in disgust, and drops half the pastry back onto the platter, shooing the server away. 

“They can get fucked,” Dean deadpans.

Cas laughs, loud and rambunctious, taking Dean off guard. Cas is gorgeous like this, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, and nose scrunched. This laughter is new—not at his expense. He straightens his back and smiles.

Cas says, “You’ve been holding back on m—”

“Excuse me.”

The man that cuts between them is tall and broad, with gray hair that brushes his shoulders and a long, frumpish blazer-coat. He orders drinks and Cas watches him.

“Cain?” Cas asks, looking… nervous. Dean has never seen Cas nervous.

“Yes?”

“I think the work you do is tremendously meaningful.” Dean has never seen Cas  _ gush _ .

Cain cracks a smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“ _ Apicultural  _ is phenomenal. The Croatia series in particular.” Shyly, Cas adds, “It’s a favourite of mine.”

“And mine. I’m sorry, you are?”

Cas’ bright smile diminishes and his body slouches infinitesimally. Dean frowns.

The question is directed at Cas but Dean extends a hand for Cain to shake. “I’m Dean,” he says. “From Word Mil. This is Cas, my colleague.” Dean doesn’t offer Cas’ full name. Doesn’t say  _ award winning _ , or  _ record breaking _ , or even  _ Supernatural _ .

“Mark Cain.”

Cain… Mark Cain.

“The photographer,” Cas supplies him with a grin, at ease again.

“That’s right,” Dean says, mind flooding with images of grand landscapes, lush fields, and beehives. “Ten Inch Publishing does your photo-books.”

“Consorting with the enemy, Cain?” Crowley approaches, dressed in black on black on black.

Cain laughs. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” Cain raises the two glasses the bartender brings him. “If you fellas don’t mind. My Colette is waiting so I will leave the jousting to you. These events go smoother with her at my side.”

Cain retreats and Crowley starts in that rumble of his, “You know, Dean, we could be playing the same side. Ten Inch has a corner office waiting for you.”

“An offer from the King himself. You really ought to take it, Dean,” Cas jabs and takes a sip.

“Cassie, dear, still bitter we turned down your manuscript all those years ago?”

Dean snorts. It’s not a secret that  _ Supernatural _ is the one that got away for Ten Inch. It made Word Mil a competitor, and now a proper rival, when it could have pushed Ten Inch to the very top of the publishing world.

“It’s not keeping  _ me _ up at night,” Cas smirks.

“I doubt anything does.” Crowley turns to Dean. “What do you say? Our values align with yours, less conservative than what the halo-clutching Miltons. More diverse. If that’s not enough, I’m not above bribing you.”

“You’re not above much. Maybe a strain of vermin or two,” Cas says.

“A literary icon at work, ladies and gentlemen. You really do have a way with words.”

“I—”

“Thanks, Crowley. The answer is still no.”

“You’re going to change your mind, Dean. It’d be ungodly to see all your raw talent and refined skills squandered where you are now.”

Crowley walks away, a fruity drink in hand. When did he order?

“I like him,” Cas says, and it’s Dean who laughs loudly this time, shaking his head.

They move away from the bar, settling into an easy motion around the room.

“Yeah?” Dean asks. “It really seemed like it too.”

“Maybe ‘like’ is a strong word. But he’s tolerable.”

“Didn’t think you liked anyone. Not really.”

“I’m offended. I  _ have  _ friends, Dean.”

“You have one friend, Cas, and she works for you.” Meg has maybe a fuck or two more to give than Cas.

“That’s neither here nor there. I do like people. Just not the money-driven, appearance-obsessed megalomaniacs that are here tonight.” 

“Please, tell me how you really feel.”

“I don’t mean my good boy wearing pretty panties for me, Dean.”

Dean splutters, blushes, but finally says, “Aw shucks. You tolerate me, too?”

“I do more than that,” Cas answers offhandedly, ignoring Dean’s sarcasm. “Tell me how they feel now.”

Like they’re the only thing he has on. “Can barely feel ‘em at all.”

Amused, Cas says, “You’re definitely my favourite person here.”

Dean’s skin heats under his collar, but he takes another sip instead of tugging at it. It’s tight around his neck, and Dean reminds himself that Cas can’t actually stop his breathing.

“You sure it’s not Cain? I think I saw you swoon back there.”

“Hmm, I might have to reevaluate. What have you done for the bees lately?” Cas doesn’t give him a chance to answer. “You definitely rank higher than Bird Face.”

So Cas saw him, too. “Doesn’t he look like one? It’s in the nose and those beady eyes,” Dean says, gesturing to his own face. “A little ostrich-like.”

“Unfortunate for him and his undoubtedly tight-bunned wife.”

“Maybe his wife’s hair is down and flowy and she sleeps with the pool boy.”

Cas nods seriously. “She’d be a fool to miss out.”

Dean snickers. “What about her?” He nods towards a woman adorned with as much jewelry as her slight frame can support.

“A real ginger so naturally she has no soul.”

“Shut the fuck up, man.”

“What? It’s a well-known fact.”

“And a cheap shot for a ‘genre-defining’ author,” Dean says, smirking and glancing at Cas, who’s smiling back.

Cas takes a sip from his glass. Dean doesn’t know what he’s having, some sort of mixed drink with clear liquor. He’s more consumed by the bob of Cas’ throat when he swallows.

“All right,” Dean says when Cas regards him like he knows exactly what’s caught his attention and what’s on his mind. “What was that with Cain, then? Or do you got a hard-on for every nature photographer?” 

“I think he’s a good looking man.” Cas doesn’t answer the question, not really, and he enunciates each word, “Tall. Striking.” 

“You want to put him in panties, too? Maybe I should go give him my pair,” Dean challenges, reveling in the way Cas’ eyes widen.

“Don’t you dare.” His eyes narrow again, in silent threat, and he takes Dean’s elbow in a vice-like grip.

Dean swallows, thick and involuntary, and nods, the slightest tilt of his head that earns him Cas’ approval. Dean swallows again, this time hoping to beat down what feels like pages fluttering in his stomach.

They continue to circle the room, dodging perfunctory small talk when Dean can afford to without hindering Word Mil, and whispering to each other about the more pompous guests. They snicker behind their glasses, and then behind fresh champagne flutes, Dean feeling loose and giddy. And right, trading covert one-liners by Cas’ side. 

They converse with Luc Chiffré, a cold, arrogant, French novelist making his debut on this side of the pond, and Cas makes Satan puns every chance he gets. By some miracle, Dean keeps a straight face as the remarks go over the foreigner’s head. 

“Bye Luke,” Cas says.

Luc lets out a string of irritated French words as he walks away—maybe they weren’t being as subtle as Dean thought—and Dean hides his bubbling laugh in Cas’ shoulder.

“What do you think he said?” Dean asks, still chuckling.

“Shameless bastards.”

He reels back and away from Cas, the proximity a loss he wishes he could undo immediately. “You know French?”

“I do.”

It shouldn’t surprise Dean, and it doesn’t, not really, but now he’s thinking of Cas speaking French right in his ear, into his skin, against his lips—

“You know he’s gonna be an asshole now every time I run into him at these functions, right?” Dean says, taking Cas’ empty flute from him and placing it with his on the tray of a waiter that pauses beside them.

“I don’t care.” Cas watches him with careful eyes. 

Dean smiles, wiggles his brows as the liquor settles into his muscles, relaxing him further. 

“Apparently neither do you,” Cas says, swaying back into Dean’s personal space. 

“He was pretentious,” Dean explains. “And the whole ‘how do you say  _ euh métaphore’ _ . He goddamn knows the word metaphor.”

Cas snorts. “What a douche.”

“That’s not very polite, but I won’t tell on you,” a sweet voice says.

Dean looks down at Lilith White: child prodigy, author of best selling novel  _ What I Want To Be (before I grow up) _ .

“How can I be sure?” Cas asks her, smiling brightly and dropping to a knee, catching Dean off guard.

She looks at Cas, tilts her body closer with her hands clutched behind her back, and whispers, “Snitches get stitches.”

Cas laughs uninhibitedly and Dean would too if he wasn’t so mesmerised by it.

“Hi Dean,” Lilith says, grinning up at him, gap teeth and all.

“Hey Lily,” Dean smiles. “You enjoying yourself?”

Lily pinches and lifts the tulle of her skirt and sighs dramatically, before dropping the fabric.

Cas chuckles, and turns his head to look at him. “Dean, you have the honour of knowing this girl?”

“Yeah, Dean,  _ the honour _ .”

Dean presses his lips into a line to stave off a smile and look stern. “Lily and her mom published her book independently, but we are in talks right now at Word Mil to sign them on for The Great Lilith’s next non-fiction.”

“Non-fiction, huh? What’s your book about?” Cas isn’t humouring her; he’s curious.

“It takes a village,” Lilith says, “And the village is broken.”

Cas nods. “I agree. Priorities are skewed and the wrong things are being taught to younger generations.”

Dean got sucked into an alternate universe just now. Cas talks to her like an equal, more of an equal than most people here.

“Most definitely.” Her high, squeaky voice contrasts with her serious tone. “There’s a big gap in traditional schooling as far as everyday know-how goes.”

Dean doesn’t keep up with the rest of the conversation, which outlasts all others tonight. He can’t wrap his head around this warped reality. Cas couldn’t be all hard edges, there have to be patches of soft. But that extends to people? Cas has a thing for nature and the bees. Probably puppies because everyone likes puppies. But people?  _ Kids _ ?

“Dean,” Cas snaps, and Dean tunes back in to two large pairs of eyes staring up at him. “Give me your card and a pen, please.”

Please. Not sarcastic, or patronising, just please.

Dean nods and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small piece of thick, embossed paper and a pen.

Cas uses his knee as a tabletop, and writes his own email on the back. “Give it to your mom. We can chat more. I think this block you’re having with the second half of your next book is between you and a special idea.”

“Feels like I’m on the cusp,” Lilith nods, and holds onto the card. “You’re cool, Castiel. Adults… aren’t. No offence, Dean.”

“I don’t know Lily… Some taken.”

Lilith giggles, and turns to walk away, scurrying between throngs of legs, the tails of the bow in her hair vanishing last.

“I think you’re cool,” Cas offers, suddenly standing too close. And not close enough. “I think you’re hot too. I think so many things of you, Dean.”

Cas’ breath, sweet from liquor, is both cool and warm against his skin. Fingers ghost along his backside, before settling at the small of his back. Dean breathes deliberately, body freezing the way it does when Cas is near like this. Talking like this, voice low and gravelly, steady and certain. Touching him like this… They’re surrounded by dozens of people, colleagues, peers, but Dean erases them.

“I’m looking forward to seeing later,” Cas says, his cheeks rosy. Dean has an effect on Cas too.

“I said I’d wear them, I never said you’d get to see them at the end of the night,” Dean says, his face inches from Cas. “Should have looked earlier when you had the chance.” 

“Hmm,” Cas says, his brow raising in that way it does and his gaze scrutinising. “I don’t know that I like your attitude.” 

“You don’t?” He levels Cas with a bold look.

Cas shakes his head, a small, slow motion. “Make up for your conduct. Tell me what colour they are.” 

Dean swallows, wets his lips. He shakes his head too, but tells Cas anyway. “Green.” His throat dries, and the word comes out as a rasp, almost subvocal, but Cas hears.

“I get what I want, you’ve noticed.”

“You want me, huh?” Dean says. God, he didn’t mean to sound so desperate.

Cas cocks his head to the side, smiling benignly, and rakes his eyes over Dean’s body, lingering at his crotch and lips. When Cas meets his eyes again, he feels naked. He’s always exposed to Cas, whether he likes it or not. But he does like it. Likes how there is nothing uncertain about the way Cas observes him. 

“Let’s go make fun of Ostrich Face,” Cas says. He’s an editor and Cas is a writer. They know when there isn’t a need for words.

-

Queen of Moons   
9:18 pm   
Your keycard for work is in the jacket you left doofus

Queen of Moons   
9:18 pm   
Stop by tomorrow, I’m home till noon 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The one wearing a pink cupcake drapes a hand over her heart and frowns. She says something. Probably about how an area of the Country Club’s parking lot is blocked for renovations. The woman in the sequin dress that looks less like a pastry and more like a disco ball gasps and covers her mouth with a hand. That’s an extra five yards they’ll have to walk to the front doors. Or maybe there’s a valet? 

Castiel sighs and slumps onto the high table. He’s bored. Even mocking the Rich and Insufferable has lost its luster without Dean to do it with him. He’s only attended a handful of these terrible events throughout his career, and tonight is bad but it’s been the most bearable. 

Castiel met Mark Cain. He’s attended every one of Cain’s local exhibits and has travelled for a few. His art is some of the best Castiel has seen. And Lilith. Brilliant girl who is good at having opinions and expressing them. Castiel hopes she remains uncorrupted. Most people grow up and conform; kids are the  _ before _ , they still have a chance.

A waiter passes by, and Castiel swipes a cloth napkin right off his arm. He lays it on the table and folds a corner inwards, so the tip is at the center.

Then there’s Dean. Castiel knew he would enjoy teasing him throughout the evening, had looked forward to it. Dean is handsome every time he shows up at Castiel’s in slacks and a fitted button down, or in rough denim and plaid on the weekends, but tonight, in a black tuxedo—a frivolous luxury—Dean is stunning. Even more so with what he has on under the trousers. For him. Castiel set out to make Dean as pink as he had imagined the panties to be. Turns out, they’re green. Even better.

But Dean’s company has been enjoyable in ways Castiel hadn’t predicted. Dean is more laid-back when he isn’t hounding Castiel to write. And a laid-back Dean is funny, and challenging, and loose-lipped. Standing alone doesn’t feel nearly as right as having Dean by his side. Dean would have a clever quip about Pink Dress and Black Dress.

“Castiel, it’s about time you showed up to one of these.”

He looks up from the napkin, now all four corners folded inwards, and settles his uninterested gaze on Michael on the other side of the small table. He doesn’t bother answering; Michael is not worth his time.

“Even Gabriel never got you to attend,” Michael says eventually, after smiling and nodding at a passing couple. “I must say, I am impressed with Dean.”

“Dean is an impressive man.” Castiel finds that he means it.

He knows that Dean is good at his job, has seen it in the way he edits Castiel’s own manuscripts, but tonight he learned that Dean has worked on some of his favourite novels, critical and compelling books that stand out from the overabundant garbage this industry peddles.

Michael is analysing him, Castiel can tell. Probably unused to Castiel handing out compliments. “Of course he is.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. Every word out of Michael’s mouth is sickly sweet and laden with deceit. He’s more transparent than every other fraud here.

“We value him loads at Word Mil.”

“Knowing you, Michael, not nearly enough.”

“Knowing me? I’m afraid I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with you only a handful of times, Castiel.”

“You’re simple. There’s not much to figure out.”

Michael grimaces, though to most it might appear as a pleasant smile, and Castiel mirrors the expression right back, holding his gaze, steadfast.

“Here’s your Tom Collins, Cas,” Dean says, approaching from the left.

Finished with Michael, he flicks his eyes to Dean who looks dapper, as he strides over, two drinks in hand. He comes to a stop beside him, and sets the glasses down. Michael’s presence will serve for Castiel and Dean to whip up one-liners. Something definitely needs to be said about—

“Michael, hey! Haven’t run into you all night,” Dean greets cheerfully. Genuinely. Not at all forced. Not like the composed politeness he employed the rest of the night.

“Deano, buddy. You’re looking dapper,” Michael mocks.

Dean laughs, “You cleaned up good too.” That wasn’t right. “You having a good time?” Dean doesn’t see it. 

Dean is too astute to not see through Michael’s facade. Yet, he’s talking with him, and laughing, and meaning it. It’s unattractive.

Castiel will lose interest in Dean because of this. Maybe he’ll fuck him tonight and that’ll be that. No point in changing editors; the odds of the next one impressing him are slim. Then again, maybe they’ll be less persistent than Dean, and leave Castiel to his own devices.

Castiel flips the napkin over, and he folds the corners in again, movements agitated as he waits for it to happen, for his interest in Dean to diminish.

It doesn’t.

Why isn’t he annoyed with Dean yet? Why is he still looking at the bright smile, and at the lived-in laugh lines that come with it? At smooth, freckled skin like dotted stone, and at eyes that gleam the way leaves do when the sunlight filters through.

It’s Michael that is vexatious. Just like scum, tarnishing things that are good. Using others, a true opportunist without misgivings. How long has he been playing Dean? Using him and his immense talent, his drive for the work. Dangling that dumb promotion in front of him. Dean is foolish for falling for it, for even wanting the job. That’s not what life is about. But at least Dean’s intentions are—

Fuck, Castiel doesn’t need to be making excuses for him. He’s going to stand here,  _ not _ sulk, and let these two dimwits have their dull conversation about mundane things.

“Yeah, I checked in on Ezekiel earlier.” Every note of Dean’s voice is earnest. “He’s really nervous about meeting so many people from the business a week before  _ Garden of Eden _ launches, but he’s keeping it together.” Dean laughs, “He almost blurted his real name a few times.”

Michael makes a noise in the back of his throat. A good throttle would clear that up for him. Not that Castiel would bother; he wouldn’t spare Michael the energy. And Dean doesn’t need anyone defending him. If Dean falls for bullshit than he deserves to be duped.

“He needs to be winning people over,” Michael says, stern and unimpressed.

Castiel narrows his eyes, hands pressing a fold into the cloth with more force than is required. “Is that what this evening is about? And here I thought we were celebrating a new generation of writers.”

A flicker of annoyance appears on Michael’s face before he schools it. Good.

“In any case, shouldn’t Gabriel be here to represent Word Mil? You know, put the most charismatic Milton forward.”

Dean presses a knee into his thigh under the table, telling him to cool it. Castiel won’t, mostly because he’s sick of Michael’s self-satisfied face, but also  _ because _ Dean is asking him to. Castiel wants Dean to see Michael as he is. He’s feeling magnanimous, that’s all.

“Oh no, of course. Gabriel isn’t around anymore. It’s been nearly a year, hasn’t it? But then,” he pauses, pretends to ponder. “Who is your new Head of Editorial?”

“ _ Cas. _ ” Dean glares at him, knee knocking now.

“It’s a valid question, Dean. Word Mil is my publisher, and I’d like to know it is taking care of itself so it can take care of me.”

“These things take time,” Michael says, smile strained.

Later, Castiel will assume that Michael said a politely formulated goodbye and fucked off, but right now he doesn’t notice him walk away. Dean’s face shifts from irate to crestfallen.

“Michael is a blind spot for you, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw sets, and he continues to stare ahead. Not at Castiel. 

It’s annoying. He wants full access to Dean’s eyes and all that they are bad at hiding. From him, anyway; not everyone is as perceptive, and he doesn’t fault them for it. But he wants Dean to see  _ this _ .

“He’s stringing you along. He won’t give you that promotion.” He wants Dean riled up.

Dean meets his gaze, and something settles inside Castiel, but Dean doesn’t look angry or hurt or annoyed. Instead he appears as a paradoxical combination of hardened and soft.

Dean says, “That’s pretty,” and nods to the napkin in Castiel’s palm. His ability to surprise is Castiel’s favourite thing about him.

Castiel looks between the makeshift origami and Dean.

“It’s a lotus.”

Dean nods, and takes a large gulp of his whiskey.

“Here,” he says, offering it to Dean. It’s one of the more asinine things he’s done, but that’s between him and himself.

Dean nods again, looks around, and tucks the stolen napkin into the same pocket he keeps his business cards.

“Look,” Dean says with a half-cracked smile. “The one in the pink dress is sad that they moved tennis to Tuesdays at the country club.”

Castiel laughs, and Dean chimes in with bright sounds like sunshine. It transports Castiel to his garden, on his back under his favourite tree, sunlight dappling over him, beautiful the way only sunlight can be. And Dean.

Dean loosens up again as the evening progresses, the whiskey helping, and Castiel’s right there with him. He still makes Castiel at least pretend to pay attention to the stage during the sporadic speeches from industry leaders and the handful of writers who read excerpts. Castiel ends up watching the musicians that stand to the side in an orderly fashion, and imagining what might be going through their minds. 

He does enjoy one except and when the crowd goes back to mingling, he tells Dean as much. Dean, the obvious editor, beams, and Castiel’s chest swells pridefully.

“See?” Dean says, taking a sip of his water. “Tonight isn’t so bad.”

Castiel pins him with a look, and Dean struggles to swallow. “I know how to make it great,” he says, panning through a million dirty thoughts and compromising images of Dean, past and most probably future. Clearly he hasn’t lost interest yet. He derives pleasure from Dean, and living is all about pleasure.

“Yeah?” Dean asks when he’s done coughing. In an adorable attempt at sounding assertive, Dean continues, “Later, maybe I’ll let you.”

That’s funny, so Castiel laughs. “Not later. Now.”

He places a hand at Dean’s shoulder blade, and guides him towards one of the arches near the stage. He’s too impatient to slow for Dean to set his glass down, but Dean manages anyway.

Castiel knows the museum well, so it takes no time to find his favourite exhibit, immersed in shadows and far from the party, though faint noise still reaches them. He stops in front of a recently added painting, and stares, Dean stumbles to a halt. 

Vivid colours of the grass, reds and purples and blues, dance on the canvas’ surface, rustled by a breeze that isn’t there. The landscape is unconventionally painted in a portrait’s frame, seen in perspective instead of width. Castiel likes that a lot.

“Cas, we can’t  _ here _ ,” Dean says. He doesn’t mean it, but Castiel won’t ever decide on his behalf. “We shouldn’t even be here.”

“So leave,” he answers, looking away from the artwork and at the museum label. Dean is beside it, and it turns out Castiel would much rather focus on him. He steps closer. “Or stay, and show me what pretty boys look like in their pretty panties.”

Even with two feet between them, Castiel can see Dean’s pupils blown wide, and it no doubt has something to do with the low lighting, but it’s not the only reason because Dean undoes the button to his tuxedo jacket, the one on his trousers, the zipper. 

He stills and swallows, looking at the way they came. Castiel says, “Go on,” and Dean does.

He moves his shirt to where it won’t obstruct Castiel’s view—very considerate—and holds open the flaps of his pants. 

Castiel means to ignore the underwear and stare Dean down just to make him uncomfortable and see him squirm, but, fuck, they’re a rich green, like forests, taut against a growing bulge. He’d begrudge Dean the fact that the panties aren’t sheer, but the silhouette of his cock is too attractive to care. Maybe next time.

He exhales the lungful he was holding, and Dean’s eyes light up; he noticed.

Dean leans his shoulders against the wall, angling his body back and jutting his hips forward.

Cocky little shit.

He moves in on Dean to feel the hard and soft lines of that perfect body against his own, and presses into him so that Dean’s caught between his arms, between him and the wall.

He drags his nose along Dean’s jaw, following the line to his ear, listens to the hitch in breathing, and whispers, “Good boy.” 

With one hand at Dean’s hip, under the pants, stroking the edge of the underwear with his thumb, Castiel leans back, grips Dean’s chin, fingers digging into delicate skin, and cants his face so their eyes meet. “Are you enjoying it? Wearing them for me?” 

“Why you gotta say stuff like that, Cas?”

“You like it.”

“I—”

Castiel likes to push Dean to see how far he’ll bend, like a branch before it snaps, so he interrupts and says, “You’re my consummate little slut, Dean. Of course you do.”

Dean takes a deliberate breath, and his skin warms under Castiel’s hand as he nods.

_ Fucking perfect _ , Castiel says, but he crushes his lips to Dean’s somewhere in the middle so the words are lost, even as they find each other in this moment. Life is all about the present and the pleasures you allow yourself, and right now, in this hall of exquisite art that barely compares to Dean, Castiel plans to enjoy himself fully.

He steps closer, tilts his hips so the line of zipper teeth presses into Dean, and his gasped name goes straight to his dick. To his head. The way Dean gives into him when they put they put their work aside is elating. He bends and molds into whatever Castiel asks.

He kisses hard, taking more, taking everything Dean is willing to offer, which is usually everything, and his hand wanders from where it grips a hipbone to where Dean’s erection strains against the fine material. Dean’s cock is thick and hot as he strokes along its length where it presses against Dean’s stomach. 

Every time they break for air precious words-turned-to-sounds spill from Dean’s lips and echo off the walls of the large, quiet room, and Castiel needs more. Needs to hear more,  _ see _ more.

“No,” Dean whines when Castiel steps away from him, dress shoes squeaking.

Dean’s body writhes against the wall like all it wants is to be pinned by Castiel’s, skin flushed and clashing against the dark green of the panties that now have a darker patch where the tip of Dean’s dick is, lips pink and swollen and parted, a permanent plea staining them.

“I want to see them from behind. Turn.”

Dean turns, of course he does; he is always quick to obey. Dean is also eager to impress: lowering his pants to just under his ass and revealing a sheer panel at the back of the panties. Just what Castiel wanted.

Through the mesh, he sees where Dean’s asscheeks meet, and he runs his tongue over his lips the way he wants to lick in between them.

“All the way,” he says, voice low, demanding.

Dean blushes a lovely colour, and works his pants down his strong thighs so they drop to the floor with a dull thump. He shuffles back from the wall, giving himself space to bend forward; the view changes from filthy to positively obscene. Dean bunches up his dress shirt and suit jacket again, and holds them out of the way for him. 

Castiel trails fingers down Dean’s crease to where his balls are heavy through the flimsy material. He moves his hand up the same, hot path with an insistent press against Dean’s taint, and makes the fabric catch between Dean’s cheeks.

He grabs handfuls of ass, and he spreads it, smiling, fingertips just under the underwear’s trim, Dean’s hole coming into veiled view.

“Did you choose these with me in mind, Dean?” Castiel asks, snapping the waistband once before spreading Dean for him to look at again.

“Enough talking, Cas. C’mon.”

Castiel laughs, a quiet sound that sticks to them instead of filling the room. “That’s alright, Dean. No need to admit to what I already know.”

He tilts his head, considering. Adds, “Think of what I could have made you do. I should have told you to show up at my house plugged. You’re so amenable, you’d have complied. Isn’t that right?” 

He plasters himself to Dean, bulge lodging right where the fabric is sheer, and nips at the skin above Dean’s collar. Dean grinds his ass back and it feels like heaven against his dick. It’s all the answer Castiel needs, but it’s not the one he wants.

“Maybe I’ll attend another circus for the opportunity. Hmm, yes, that’s a good idea, I think. What do you say, Dean?”

Dean’s fist muffles his whimpers.

“You’re being impolite. I want to hear your thoughts, Dean. I’m picturing a plug that’ll match your underwear. I could get you one with a jewel.” 

Yes, that would bode well. Castiel doesn't do regrets, so this is a first. It’d have been the perfect sight: shiny gem gleaming beneath the sheer panties. Or maybe no panties. He should have made greater demands when he agreed to attend this charade.

“What colour would you prefer? A green gem to match? I’m fond of blues.” Whispering, “What’s it going to be?”

“Cas,” Dean croaks, and Castiel rolls his hips just to hear Dean lose his breath again. “ _ Cas. _ ”

He lets go of Dean to undo his own pants and get his cock out and then shoves him into the wall, one hand between shoulder blades to keep him in place, the other undoing the bow tie to expose more of Dean’s neck. He wants to put his mouth there.

“I know you’re more eloquent than that, Dean. Use your words.”

“Yeah, Cas, I’d do it.”

Castiel hums into tan skin. “I know. What I don’t know is if I’d have been able to leave the house without getting my hands on you. Maybe I’d have fucked you against my front door, filled you with my come and plugged you back up.”

Dean pushes his ass back with urgency, breathing something unintelligible.

“What was that?” he taunts, overly pleased with himself.

“Yes, yes, Cas. I’d do that too.” Dean gasps, Castiel’s cock brushing against his wanting hole. “I’d have let you.  _ I always do, _ ” he sobs, with a sweet crack in his voice.

Castiel could make Dean wait, could even leave him here, go back to the crowd, mingle, and return for Dean later in the evening, safe in the knowledge that Dean would be right where he left him. But, he’d rather pull Dean apart now.

He yanks Dean’s head back by his hair and echoes against his throat, “You always do.”

His dick slips between Dean’s thighs, and his boy doesn’t need to be told to bring them closer together. That’s how he fucks him, cock sliding dry and rough against Dean’s ass, against his taint, tip nudging his balls, nothing but the thin material between them. Castiel strokes Dean through the underwear, and gropes his way up a sometimes soft sometimes taut stomach to pinch a nipple.

Precome leaks, slicking Dean’s thighs, and each thrust sparks behind Castiel’s lids. He closes a hand around Dean’s fist, balled up near his head on the wall.

Castiel decides to touch Dean’s cock directly, the fabric silky against the back of the hand he slips inside, and Dean’s thighs tremble around his dick like the shaky prayer he mutters.

It takes a stroke and a half for Dean to come in the panties—how Castiel wants—squeezing his legs, soft moans colliding with the art, and reverberating in Castiel’s bones. 

The way Dean sounds always does it for him so he leans back, pulls Dean’s underwear down and comes on his ass. Some spurts land on Dean’s back dimples but most of it ends sliding between round cheeks. He snaps the panties back into place, the fabric clinging to Dean’s skin lewdly, making Castiel’s dick twitch with the hope of a second go. He manhandles Dean, still panting, turns and traps him against the wall, grinding sensitive and softening dicks together. 

Dean makes a noise, needy and soft, and Castiel swallows it with an indulgent kiss, taking his time. Hands clench his suit, twisting the material and pulling him closer, and it drives Castiel to kiss harder, supple lips giving in to him beautifully. He feels young like this, like a teenager he explores Dean’s chest, fingers light over the button down, and warm beneath the jacket.

He considers leaving Dean sticky with both their come to watch him hide the fact all evening, but decides against it. He pulls away, and plucks the folded napkin from Dean’s pocket.

“No!” Dean says, making a clumsy grab for the lotus.

He presses their flushed hips firmly into the wall, pinning Dean, and unravels the origami. Dean frowns, but with lips like his it’s more of a pout, and Castiel is kissing him again before he’s even thought about it. Dean looks better when he’s smiling anyway.

When they’re just breathing each other’s air, Castiel says, “You’re cute, so I’ll make you another.”

He allows Dean a minute to clean up as best he can with the cloth, and heads back to the Vain and Pretentious. Dean scrambles behind him, not done getting himself together, and Castiel hears a zipper, and a  _ wait up, I don’t know the way back _ before Dean catches up.

“Do I look okay?” Dean asks, tying the necktie into a neat bow.

“You’re fishing for compliments now?”

Dean laughs. “Shut the fuck up, man.”

Light from the party spills into the darkened hall; he’d rather not share Dean with all these people. 

Dean walks ahead, and as flustered as Castiel can make him, right now he moves with grace, body strong and sure, giving Castiel half a mind to drag Dean back into the shadows, strip him fast and fuck him slow.

“Thank you for that gracious introduction,” Michael says from the stage as he and Dean slip into the crowd’s fringe. “Your check is in the mail.” Castiel rolls his eyes and does it again at the chorus of laughter.

Michael continues speaking about things Castiel doesn’t care about, a crafted speech that’s as rehearsed as it is boring. The musicians do a good job of not looking like they want to use the strings of their instruments as weapons, at least. 

Dean, pretty face upturned, eyes shiny and hopeful, chews his lower lip— What does he have to be nervous about? Michael may have been asked to be one of the keynote speakers, but so were many public figures; the event isn’t about them. Michael should only have generic things to say before introducing one of Word Mil’s shiny new authors.

“—things are always changing. That is truly the only constant, and at Word Mil we choose to lean into it. There is greatness afoot, and the future is bright as our House restructures and forges on.”

Dean rocks to the balls of his feet, biting his lip, now to hide a smile.

“I’m honoured that tonight I get to share a peek with you. Please join me in welcoming, author of  _ Garden of Eden _ , Ezekiel.” Michael swoops an arm to the side and the man who accidentally introduced himself to Castiel as Gadreel earlier climbs the platform steps.

Amidst the clapping and cheering and movement on stage, Dean’s face falls. His indented lip frees and he stares in the middle distance as he mindlessly brings his hands together, body stiffening.

_ Oh. _

“He was supposed to do it tonight wasn’t he?”

Dean’s profile doesn’t look right. Even when he was angry or exasperated with Castiel, he at least looked like himself.

“I did tell you so,” Castiel says to snap Dean out of the strange trance he’s in.

It works; Dean turns on him, a bitter heat in his eyes. “Fucking don’t. Okay?”

A little dramatic, if you ask him. “People like Michael never mean what they say. You should know this.”

Dean shakes his head and looks around like he’s searching for an escape. “I don’t need you giving me life lessons right now, Cas.”

The situation proves otherwise, but tonight Castiel learned he prefers Dean when he is unwound, not distressed as he is now.

“Alright, come on.” He takes Dean’s hand in his and leads them out of the masses towards the front of the hall where the exit is.

“Cas, we can’t—”

“At least five people left before we went on our little escapade. It’s socially acceptable for us to leave.” 

He sent furtive glances at the coat check counter all night. He hadn’t intended on staying any longer than necessary, but…well he had to see Dean in his little number, of course. Point is, they could blow this joint.

-

The city’s arts district borders on Castiel’s suburbs, so they’re on empty, quiet, roads within minutes.

“You’ve got a lighter?” he asks.

Dean reaches for the glove compartment immediately. “Yeah, hold on.”

It’s the first thing Dean’s said since he thanked the valet—he didn’t even fight Castiel for the keys—but the words are calm, or maybe resigned. Cas pulls a joint from his breast pocket and holds it out to Dean when he gets his hands on a black zippo.

“You were gonna get high at the gala, weren’t you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean’s smiling. “You’re not upset?”

“Nah, my own fault.” He turns Castiel’s expertly rolled blunt in his fingers. “Should’ve known that you would.”

Dean holds it in his mouth clumsily, and brings up a flame, taking a short, sharp breath, and coughing less than Castiel expects. They quiet again; Castiel focuses on the road and Dean rolls down his window to blow smoke out of it, letting in cool air.

A few hits in, Dean chuckles and hands him the joint. “Last time I did this I think I was… fuck, yeah, would’ve been after college graduation with Charlie. Shit, that’s a decade ago.” Dean laughs again. Just like sunshine.

“How did it get so late so soon?”

“You’re quoting Dr. Seuss to me?”

Castiel shrugs, and breathes in a dank tasting puff. “I’m a fan,” he says on the exhale.

“Everyone is.” Dean nods, settling more comfortably into the bench, the potential of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You would think, but there’s two types of people in the world.”

“Yeah?”

“Those who appreciate Seuss, and fucking idiots.”

Dean snorts. “See the one I heard is there's people who masturbate and liars.”

That’s terrible but Castiel smiles despite himself. “Do you dip your fries or squirt the ketchup—”

Scandalised, “I’m not an animal.”

Castiel shakes his head, smiling some more, and passes the joint back to Dean, who is also smiling. This time he watches him take in a lungful, watches him hold it while streetlamps illuminate the car briefly. The lighting is terrible, fluorescent and harsh, but Dean looks good, his features soft as he relaxes.

 

The drive is short but the spliff is down to its filter by the time Castiel pulls up his driveway, coming to a smooth stop. He still thinks Dean’s affection towards the vehicle is absurd, but he thinks it a little less now; it runs like a dream and the soft, rumbling, purr of the engine is pleasant.

He climbs out of the car and Dean slides across the bench to sit at the wheel, confused by the lack of key in the ignition.

“Two kinds of people,” Dean says, looking up at him. “Be the kind that doesn’t rob me.”

The driver’s door is open, Castiel’s hand on the glass, no doubt leaving fingerprint smudges Dean won’t be happy with in the morning. “You’re coming inside.”

Dean looks between him and the steering wheel. “Yeah, okay.”

He already has his key out but Dean rings the doorbell anyway with a silly grin. Castiel likes it a lot.

“Alright here’s a big one. Very important.” Dean leans on the stone wall, hands fiddling with the mailbox. “Two kinds of people. Do you use bookmarks or dogear?”

Castiel snaps his head towards Dean, fuzziness touching the edges of his mind as he does so. He looks Dean over, amused but critical. The backseat of the Impala is littered with novels, older ones that have nothing to do with Word Mil. That have yellowed pages and curled corners. Dean does both.

“Are you trying to trick me, Dean?”

Dean smiles, big and bright and so very pleased with himself. “You passed.”

“What a relief.”

 

Castiel heads for the kitchen, undoing his bowtie, and knows that Dean follows. He hops onto the counter and spreads his legs wide, doesn’t mind it one bit when Dean, still at the kitchen’s entrance, openly stares at his crotch.

“My eyes are up here,” he says anyway, opening the drawer between his legs.

“Oh that’s rich,” Dean argues, shuffling into the room and leaning against the island, across from him.

It’s not his favourite but he grabs the pipe he keeps with the cutlery, closes the drawer, and reaches for the cookie jar behind him, placing it on the counter’s edge between his legs. He keeps his thighs tight around it; he doesn’t live by many rules but one of them is  _ don’t waste drugs _ . He packs the pipe, working methodically, Dean’s eyes on him and his hands and his face, the entire time. 

“I don’t like that. All the ridges in the surface.”

Castiel looks down at his cookie jar. It’s a beehive, with a bee for a handle. “You’re trypophobic?” 

“No dude, your jar is just ugly.”

He laughs and it jars even him in the quiet, moonlit house. “You brought your lighter with you?” He puts the container back where he got it, pressing the loose leaves into the bowl one last time.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean murmurs, stepping right between Castiel’s legs.

Dean makes no move to retrieve the lighter, so Castiel takes the initiative, getting handsy on Dean’s hips before dipping into a pocket. He places the pipe at Dean’s lips—“Hold this, baby”—and plump lips wrap around the glass tip.

Dean blows wispy, white, smoke upwards, and laughs a lot; he  _ giggles _ too, but he laughs a lot, eyes crinkling, freckles emerging as he flushes. It’s a nice sound, Castiel’s been thinking so all evening, but it’s nicer now with everything feeling good, with each hit bringing him closer to the counter top’s edge, and Dean closer to him. Castiel contemplates it so much that it takes a cramp in his side for him to notice that he’s laughing just as much as Dean.

“This is dumb,” Dean says, grinning and rubbing one end of Castiel’s undone bowtie between his thumb and forefinger. 

The the velvet bristles brush against Dean’s skin, and the sound lulls Castiel. “I agree,” he drawls.

He reaches for Dean’s own bow, but keeps his eyes locked on green ones. They are bright even in the dim room, the green standing out more than usual against red eyes. He pulls and the knot resists him before it gives and comes apart. He works Dean’s top buttons open next, and brushes his thumb against a collarbone because it’s there and he wants to.

“There,” he says, smoothing down Dean’s lapel over a hard chest. “Less dumb.”

Dean shakes his head, goofy smile in place, and ponderously works his tuxedo jacket off. He aims for the island behind him, but it lands on the floor. Then, Castiel is being kissed.

Fingers tangle in his hair when they lock behind his neck and pull him in. Dean grows tentative after his initial instigation, and Castiel takes advantage of that, responding fervently and taking the control Dean is so willing to give him.

They pull away, ages later, laughing.

 

They sit on the floor, Castiel’s back to the column of drawers, Dean’s against the kitchen island, passing the freshly repacked pipe, a bag of chips, and a carton of chocolate milk between them.

“What grown, self-respecting man has this at home?” Dean shakes the carton, sending what’s left inside swishing, before he takes a drink straight from the nozzle. He wipes what dribbles down his chin with the back of a hand.

Castiel exhales. He can fucking feel the air and smoke leave his lungs. “That was inside me,” he says, pointing at the dissipating white plumes, then turns his gaze on Dean to mock glare at him. “Don’t shame me.” 

“Never again.” Dean throws his hands up in twin vulcan salutes. Because that makes sense. 

Dean shifts, calf brushing against Castiel’s shin where their legs tangle, and Castiel’s not thinking about anything else anymore. Not Spock, or the Enterprise, just this. Just Dean.

Just Dean, dress shoes kicked off, sitting in his slacks, sleeves of his white button down rolled so his tan forearms are prominent, fabric stretching across his chest, and bowtie undone and hanging off his neck. Just Dean with a shit-eating grin on as he drops his hands. Castiel wants to draw him.

“You know I only think the world of you.” Saucy.

Castiel laughs, bringing a knee up, the top of his foot moving along the underside of Dean’s leg.

“I would,” Dean continues, sounding near-sober, though he definitely is not. “If you cared at all. If you at least tried. What’s it going to take, huh, Cas? What do I gotta do to get you to write this book? Any book.”

“I already have you doing the things I want.”

“I could stop.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

Dean sighs, “Why don’t you just put in the work, man?”

“Why? So I end up like you, chasing a promotion my boss is never going to give me?”

“It’s not  _ about _ the promotion,” Dean snaps.

“Tell me what it’s about then, Dean.”

“Fuck you, Cas. It’s about what I can do with it. I see how far Editorial can go, I can get it there. Bring more diversity to the market, have fresh voices, get—” 

“Right, because Word Mil is the place for  _ diversity _ . I forget, you’re all about the stories,” he mocks, amused by Dean’s agitation.

“Fuck right off.” Dean fumes in his spot, which isn’t what Castiel was going for when he whisked him away from the museum. 

“Take another hit,” he orders, handing off the pipe like an olive branch.

Dean relaxes in increments, and it’s fascinating to watch, so Castiel does. For how long? Time warps when he gets into the cookie jar.

“You think Michael is yanking me around?” Dean’s quiet, vulnerable in a way he knows better than to be around someone like Castiel. He wants to warn him.

“You don’t see it?”

Dean shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a thought. “I’ve known him since they opened the house; he calls me family. And he knows I can do the job better than anyone else. I’ve proved that. Hell, I’m already doing the work.”

There’s nothing to say to that. There are truths people don’t want to hear. Even when they ask. And, really, it’s not his responsibility. He doesn’t care about Dean’s aspirations, his relationships, or his feelings about either. He shouldn’t care about Dean much at all.

When he speaks it’s gentle anyway. “Family,” he starts, because that’s where Dean’s voice had cracked, that’s what’s getting to him most. “Means wildly different things to different people.”

 

“Who’s Charlie?” he asks when the song Dean has playing on his phone transitions into a guitar solo. 

It earns him a glare. “What?” Dean likes his tunes, noted.

“Who’s Charlie.”

Dean catches on and his face breaks into a wide smile. Castiel likes it more than the aggravated expressions Dean usually sports with him, but this one tastes bad on his tongue. She’s someone special.

“I don’t know,” Dean smiles giddily.

“You mentioned her earlier.”

“Who is Charlie, huh?” He laughs, long and loud. “How do you even define Charlie? I think she maybe works for the CIA but won’t or can’t tell me. She doesn’t let me stop by her office so the tech company she works for is fake until I see proof.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“I met her in  _ high school _ . I know all her teenage shame-secrets, she should tell me this! She was such a dork back then too. Still is. Definitely the dorkiest, even more than Sammy. It’s weird because she just might be the coolest person I know, too. I mean she works for the CIA. Probably.”

Dean frowns, adds, “I don’t see enough of her anymore.”

“People drift after college.”

“Yeah? And some people become the editors of annoying, lazy, dedicationless writers.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Bite me.”

“You’re blaming me for not seeing your friend as much as you’d like?”

“You don’t even know, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“You and your half-drafts, your  _ not _ -outlines, your… your  _ self insert smut _ . You don’t even  _ know _ how much of my time you eat up. You’re my number one cause for stress.”

Castiel doesn’t remember the last time he stressed out over anything.

“I know the best way to relax.”

 

Dean is kneeling for him again, knees planted on either side of his hips, tiles cold and imprinting indents into them; Castiel knows from experience. He leans up, just a little, they are already so close, and seals his mouth over Dean’s. They exchange a breath, Castiel sharing the smoke he’s been holding, and when Dean pulls back to exhale, it ends up between them, ephemeral but staining the air nonetheless.

“That was inside both of us,” Dean murmurs, partly echoing Castiel’s earlier words. Dean smiles, as if it isn’t a ridiculous thing to say, and Castiel mirrors it.

“Gross.”

Their kissing lacks finesse, and it’s equal parts lazy and enthusiasm, but it’s good. A lot of tongue, a lot of hands, a lot of perfect little whimpers. Dean’s ass feels great against his palms, and the textured lace through Dean’s pants feels greater.

“I want you inside me,” Dean whispers, his lips still on him. They curl happily, “Want you to fuck me, Cas.”

Castiel says, “Sure,” and kisses him again.

 

They stumble up the stairs, laughter and creaking wood joining the soundtrack of Dean’s abandoned phone.

“Gonna use your bathroom first,” Dean says at the top of the steps, trapped between Castiel and the banister, a mimication of how the night started.

“You need to freshen up?” he calls after Dean who pads down the hall.

“Put a cork in it, Cas,” Dean throws without turning back. Castiel knows he’s smiling.

He goes to the closet in his bedroom, sheds the tuxedo, sheds everything. The wardrobe is big, a spacious walk-in, but mostly empty; he doesn’t like to own many things. He contemplates the drawer where he keeps his sex toys with a hazy mind.

He brings the bow he wore tonight and the one tie he owns—Meg got it for him before some meeting—into the bedroom. Dean is naked, and laying on his front. Long limbs sprawled and tangling in the luxurious, soft sheets; it makes Castiel happy to splurge on his bed. Dean’s back is broad, tapering into a thick waist. He follows the dip of Dean’s spine all the way down to a bare, rounded ass. Dean is tan but the skin there is paler in the moonlight.

Dean’s face burrows in Castiel's favourite pillow. His breathing is steady, deep, lips parted and jaw slack; he’s asleep.

Castiel drops both his ties right where he’s standing, and crawls into bed. 

-

FROM: mmilton@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: Gala

You’re still my number one, Dean. Things got complicated. Don’t take this to heart. We’ll talk more at the office. 

:)

-

FROM: fcrowley@teninch.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: Proposal

Dean,

A gentle reminder that I am relentless. Look over the attached document, and call me. I think you’ll find yourself pleased with my offer.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean wakes to the warmth of sunshine inching up his body, but he only moves when the light reaches his closed lids. He rolls away from the offence, hoping to at least chase the illusion of sleep, and hears a huff.

“Don’t move.”

It’s Cas. 

But this isn’t a wet dream.

Right?

He opens an eye to Cas perched on the corner of the massive bed, in the nude with a thick, black, hard-cover book open in his lap. Dean should have known something was up—that he wasn’t in his apartment—when it felt like he could roll forever without falling off the mattress. 

Cas isn’t looking at him, and lead scratches on paper.

“You’re drawing me?” Dean asks, tasting last night’s indulgence on his tongue. Cas’ stuff is better than what he could afford at twenty-two.

“Wait. You moved and I don’t want to forget.”

Dean’s surprised he even gets an answer. Cas has ignored him before, if responding was inconvenient.

The pencil stills and blue eyes, brilliant in the sun, look up. Dean loses and catches his breath in the same beat. “The last condition was that you could paint me, not draw.”

Cas grins, seeming up to no good. Hopefully up to no good with him; they didn’t get off last night. After the gala.

“What’s the matter, Dean? You don’t want to be one of my French girls?”

He laughs, shifting onto an elbow. “You gonna let me see?”

Cas moves closer, sitting with an ankle tucked underneath him. Dean could peel off the covers so that there’s nothing between them. Cas turns the book around, holding it up for Dean to see himself in elegant, simple lines. 

“Shit, Cas. That’s— You’re...”

“I have a proposition for you.”

That doesn’t sound good. He pries his eyes away from the sketch to settle them on Cas. “You’re not getting me in panties again.” 

“I am, but that’s not what this is about.”

He glares at Cas’ amused mug. “And I don’t care which events you attend from here on out.”

“I’ll write,” Cas states, but it can’t mean what Dean thinks it means. No way. “You model for my drawing and painting, and I’ll consistently supply pages for the book Meg pitched.”

Dean blinks. “You’ll stick to the original outline?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll stop starting new stories?”

“Yes.”

“No more porn featuring us?”

“What I do on my own time, Dean, is—”

“No. Nope. Either you’re taking this seriously or—”

“You’ll have a first draft by the current deadline.”

“Why?”

“We can pick another date, if you’d like.”

“No, who sprinkled dwarf dust in your cereal and made you want to heigh-ho off to work?”

“I’d hardly call it work.”

“I must have spent months running after you for shits and giggles then.”

“You do have an odd fascination with me.”

“That’s it, I’m out of here.” He doesn’t move.

“You underestimate how gorgeous you are. Maybe if you let me draw you enough, I can show you.” Cas doesn’t mean anything by it. He says shit like this without realising what they mean. He’s commenting on the symmetry Dean knows his face has. “You’re not terrible to be around either.”

“Who’s infatuated now?”

Cas rolls his eyes, and they’re on familiar ground again. “Do we have an agreement?”

There’s gotta be a catch, but Dean doesn’t see a downside. He sees full nights of sleep, and Fridays at Charlie’s becoming a regular thing, and spending an entire Saturday detailing the Impala. So he stands around—poses—for Cas a few times. He’s done more for less. He’s done worse for Cas for no reason at all other than he was asked to.  _ And you wanted to _ , the most honest part of him reminds.

“I guess we do. Shake on it?” He sits up, daring the sheet to slide off, and extends his hand to Cas.

Cas says, “That’s not how we sealed our last deal.”

Cas sets the book aside, moves up the bed, and presses him back into the mattress. His heartbeat quickens because it can’t not, not with Cas naked and near.  _ Invading _ .

“We might be starting a new tradition. Exciting stuff.”

He rolls his eyes, a front; he’ll suck Cas off whenever. He loves doing it.

“You’ve got blowjob lips. Did you know?” Cas looms over him, teeth sparkling. “Oh don’t do that with your face, I mean it as a compliment.”

“Just get up here.” 

He tugs at Cas’ arm to have him come settle over his face. He’s impatient, has been thinking about blowing Cas since the last time he had him in his mouth. He considered doing it at the gala, partly to minimise the mess.

“No,” Cas says and Dean considers screaming. “I’m the one with the offer this time.”

_ Oh. _

Cas smirks up at him from against a thigh, and bites once, not hard but enough to leave a mark.

Dean forgets he has things to do, somewhere to be, as Cas takes it slow. Takes Dean apart. He builds Dean up to a gentle peak, brings him back down, and then takes him higher. Again and again, until the hill is a mountain, until it’s Everest, until all Dean wants is for it to shatter.

Cas is being fickle. He lets Dean fuck up into his mouth, desperate and keening, only to change his mind and hold Dean’s hips down, forcing him to be still, to take only what’s given to him.

Dean’s sweat coated and teary when he comes like an avalanche.

 

To avoid suspicion, Dean stops by his place for a shower and a change of clothes before heading to Charlie’s, but the grin on her face when she opens the door gets sly quick.

“Coffee?” she offers sweetly, walking back in ahead of him.

He spots luggage. “Sure, sounds good. You going somewhere?” he asks, taking a seat at the small, round kitchen table.

Charlie turns from the refrigerator with a small carton of cream, and kicks the door closed behind her. “Tech conference out of town.”

“Is that code for super secret missio—”

“I don’t work for the CIA, Dean! Nor would I, the NSA is where it’s at.”

Dean whispers, “What is the truth?”

“Yes, Dean.  _ What _ is the truth?” She walks over with two mugs, and scrapes the chair against the floor when she sits. “Spill.”

Steam rises from his mug, the ceramic warm in his palm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t. I know when you’ve been fucking, Winchester!”

“You don’t.”

“I knew when Rhonda Hurley popped your cherry in tenth grade.”

“For the last time, that’s not how cherry popping works, Charlie.”

“Whatever. Give me details. You didn’t mention you were seeing anyone so what are we working with here? One night nookie?”

“Charlie,” he whines.

“Alright fine, but I’m only letting up because it’s getting late and I need to cleanse my person before I head out.”

“You can just say shower, you know.”

Charlie flips long locks over her shoulder. “You’re gracing us with your presence this Friday, yes?”

If the deal with Cas ends up being what he was promised, Dean will be making it every Friday.

“Too bad the choice is out of your hands,” Charlie says, standing and kissing the top of his head. “Gonna go launder my body, now.”

“Charlie—”

From down the hall, “Depurgate my vessel. Free it from its dirt-shackles.”

 

Dean has a productive Monday morning. By the time the first employees trickle in, he’s caught up on what he didn’t get done over the weekend. The handful of people in the office make little noise, lulled by the serenity of the low sun, so the floor is quiet when his phone rings. 

It’s too early for it to be good news.

_ Cas Novak _ , the screen reads.

“This is new,” Dean says into the receiver. “You’re not dying are you?”

Cas’ laugh is rich over the speaker, and when he speaks it’s raspy from sleep. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“I’m surprised you’re up and at ‘em.”

“I promise you I am  _ at _ precisely nothing, though I am up.” 

Sheets rustle.

“And awake.”

Dean’s face heats, his body catching on before his mind. “Are you—” He clears his throat. “Are you calling me at work and touching yourself?” His voice pitches high, and he stands to close the blinds. He’s not going to do anything at work, but the glass wall leaves him exposed. 

“Not yet,” Cas says. “But that can change if you’d like.”

“I don’t like! I mean I wouldn’t like.”

Cas laughs again, teasing, and Dean leans into the sound, relaxing even as he’s wound tighter. “Sure, Dean. I’ll wait until after our call. Promise. I suppose thinking of you will have to suffice.”

His blush spreads down his body like wildfire, and thoughts of Cas, naked and morning-soft, tug Dean’s mind towards the gutter. “Just put some damn pants on, Cas. You’ve never called me before. What do you want?”

“You’ll come over after work.”

“I will?”

“To be painted.” Cas chuckles, “Ideally you’d come now.”

Dean glares at his desk. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Despite whatever bonding they might have done at the gala, Cas is still the worst. And so are his half-assed jokes.

But the promise of new,  _ real _ , pages in exchange for whatever Cas will have him do makes Dean smile the rest of the day. Yeah, that’s why.

 

He finds Cas in his office.

“You’re earlier than I thought you would be.” Cas doesn’t acknowledge him beyond that, just continues typing.

“This is when I usually come around to hound your ass.”

“I do enjoy the time we spend together. Our talks.” Cas punctuates the sentence by hitting the  _ Enter _ key with force, and finally looks up, smirking.

“Yeah, Cas, I’m sure you’re real appreciative.”

“Since you  _ are _ here, might as well take advantage of the daylight. The golden hour is soon.” Cas stands.

“Not so fast. I see your work first. Then you can do your thing.”

“Check your emails.”

Dean looks at him dubiously, but pulls his phone out of his pocket. There it is. The top item in his inbox, received one minute ago. He opens it and the attached document. He even spot checks the text to make sure it’s not another dissertation on how silkworms are in danger. It’s an actual chapter. Or at least part of one.

“Since when do you use technology for what it’s for?” he asks, trying to hide how fucking excited he is to have words from Cas. He planned on reading something else tonight but whatever it is can wait.

“What? Oh. No, I just printed the pages to fuck with you the first time and then you took them. I couldn’t believe it, really. What kind of editor doesn’t demand a virtual copy?” Cas snickers. “You were so eager to please.”

“You’re an ass.” 

Cas nods and walks around the desk. “Follow me.”

Dean hasn’t been in the room Cas leads him to. Canvases lean on the walls, with large, paint splattered tarps draped over most of them. The ones he can see are still blank. It’s to protect the paintings from the sun, he realises, which there is a lot of. It spills in from the glass french doors that look out of place for a cobblestone.

“I had them put in,” Cas says. The fucker is always reading Dean’s mind.

“You won’t unpack the boxes in your office, but you had major renovations done to this room?”

Cas shrugs, seeming shy about it, and walks over to the doors. He tugs the curtains out of the way, letting more sunshine through, and Dean gets it. The view is a stunner. He asked Cas once about this house, about living in the suburbs; it hadn’t fit with what he knew of him. Cas told him about the garden, how it blends into small woods and how beyond those there’s a creek.

The light is warm, giving the room a calm glow, and he’s still basking in it and the view when Cas gets close and lifts the messenger bag off his shoulder.

“Take your jacket off.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck once he’s done. He’s as foreign as the French doors in this room. Cas, in his softest jeans and a worn shirt, surrounded by his supplies, is in his element.

He rolls up Dean’s sleeves one by one. There’s nothing sexual about it. Cas looks good as he loosens Dean’s tie, with a tongue caught between his teeth. He looks good when he runs his hands through Dean’s hair to make it stick up, too, but he’s not putting the moves on Dean.

“Good,” Cas says. “Go sit in that chair and look like you’ve just gotten home from a long day of work.”

“I  _ did  _ just get hom—off from a long day of work.” He walks over to the overstuffed Charles of London chair. He only knows what it’s called because of the time he and Sammy pretended to be interested in purchasing one. It was raining and they loitered in the store with nowhere to go until John came back for them.

“And if you do well, I’ll get you off later.”

“With incentive like that, I’ll be sure to try extra hard.” He sits and sinks into the threadbare cushion. It’s comfortable in the way only timeworn furniture can be. How long has Cas had this?

Cas snorts and wheels a small shelving unit to the easel in the middle of the room. He opens a jar and coats the canvas in white with broad strokes, then takes his time setting up as that dries. The way Cas goes about preparing his palette and brushes is methodical enough that Dean thinks it might be routine. Cas is calm like this, his smirk replaced by something soft. 

“Loosen up a little, Dean,” Cas says when he’s ready. “You’re home, unwinding.” 

Cas needs to stop saying that. He likes this room, unlike Cas’ office, and Cas has the best mattress Dean has ever slept on, but this isn’t home.

“Spread your knees a little more. Yeah like that, and cross your ankles— No go back to how you were. Bend your left elbow.” Cas looks him over with a studious gaze, and it unnerves Dean. “Alright. Stay like that. When I get to your face I’ll want you to look over there,” he says, pointing to a corner. 

Cas gets to work, arm peeking out from behind the canvas to swirl paint brushes in a cup of water, eyes flicking to Dean often. Watching him toil away is fascinating—it’s a first that’s for sure—but gets boring after an hour.

Dean settles into the chair, spends a few minutes trying to develop x-ray vision to see through the tarps, counts the notches carved into the wood of the closet’s door frame, and watches specks of dust dance in the light.

“You’re terrible at this,” Cas says.

“It’s not easy!” Dean defends.

“To sit still and look pretty?”

“It’s boring.”

“Dick around on your phone for now.”

Dean reads the pages Cas sent. It turns out to be the entire first chapter. The story is set in a world off-Earth, and differs from  _ Supernatural  _ in every way. It follows a girl with a bomb in her chest instead of a heart. Strong emotions set her off, frying the technology that surrounds her, and injuring those who are near, which leads her to a life of near-isolation, in fear of the damage she could cause. It opens to her masturbating, wrecking her living room as she approaches orgasm without getting there.

“She’s too passive,” he says, when he’s done with his fifth read through. “And the hook comes in too late.”

Cas hums which means the jackass isn’t paying attention.

“I love the part where she wrings your neck and stuffs you in a suitcase.”

“Mhmm.”

“The Timbuktu label is a nice touch. Very  _ Aristocats _ .”

Cas leans back, observes his canvas, then goes in with a different brush dipped in bright orange. Dean isn’t wearing any orange and the couch is in faded brown corduroy. 

“Cas. You gonna listen to me?”

“I’d rather not. Still and pretty, remember?”

Dean would glare but Cas peers around the canvas’ edge and grins at him. It’s disarming.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Your MC is too passive,” Dean starts while Cas goes back to painting. “Readers won’t root for her.”

“Alright, I’ll fix it.”

That was too easy. “How would you go about it? I’m thinking with the research she’s doing.”

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I’ll consider your suggestions because I told you I’d write the book, and might as well make sure it sells, but I don’t care about these characters or the story, so don’t have conversations about them with me.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s how Gabe and I did things. He left me to it and did a glorified spellcheck at the end.” Cas looks at him, eyes dark, daring. “The book is dumb.”

Cas is the one who is dumb. If he’s not invested, the readers won’t be either. It doesn’t matter how innately talented Cas is, the book will tank. “It’s an allegory.”

Cas scoffs. “For what? Accidental terrorism?”

“What? No— It’s obviously a parallel to anxiety. Social situations cause her to… How did you write this and not know?”

“I already told you. I don’t care.”

“What the fuck happened to you, man?”

Cas paints; his steady hand doesn’t falter. “What do you mean, Dean?”

“I mean how’d you turn out to be such a goddamn asshole?”

“I don’t think I need a reason.” He’s fucking amused.

“No one is born this jaded.”

The sound of paint dragging against the canvas ceases and Cas’ eyes burn Dean’s skin like blue flames. “What do you expect me to say? You want me to tell you how I was orphaned as a child?”

Gently, Dean says, “You were?”

Cas laughs again. “No, Dean. My parents are right where I left them, living simple, boring lives.” Dean’s jaw clenches at his own gullibility. “In fact, there’s an entire troupe of simple and boring Novaks.” He tilts his head, and Dean might as well be naked under the piercing gaze. “Not every asshole is justified. Not everyone has a tragic backstory.”

Cas doesn’t know about Mom. Doesn’t know what her death did to John. Doesn’t know that Dean doesn’t like the word home because he knows it’s supposed to be meaningful, has read it in countless novels, but hasn’t known one without an engine. He’s just being his flippant self.

Dean hesitates to ask, “You don’t care about  _ Supernatural _ either?” 

“Not while I was writing it, and not now. But let me guess, you think it’s a powerful story.” Cas puts his brush down, moves from behind the easel, and crosses his arms.

“It is.”

“A young hero struggling with the internal battle of good versus evil, right versus wrong, only to make the ultimate sacrifice in the end for the sake of the world. Very original.” Cas narrows his eyes at nothing in particular, looking like the summary pained him to spew. “ _ Supernatural _ is crack at best, and blasphemous at worst. How the Church hasn’t persecuted it, I don’t know.”

“That’s not what it’s about.” Cas has no fucking clue.

“Right, right. It’s about family, the bond between brothers. Yada yada. It’s a joke, Dean. The proof’s in the pudding and the pudding starts with that terrible title.”

Dean shakes his head, slow as his disbelief spreads. Cas doesn’t see it, not because it’s not there.  _ It is.  _ Has to be. “It’s about being lonely.”

“What?” Cas’ eyes widen, before squinting at Dean in that way they do when he’s curious. “That hasn’t been said to me before.”

“ _ Every _ character is lonely. Even Dan and Sean, which is cruel irony because they’re never apart once Dan leaves school, but they are always alone. C’mon, Dan’s been an outcast his entire life and doesn’t develop a meaningful relationship, platonic or otherwise, until Jessie and then she’s ripped away from him. Sean hasn’t had a single person stick around ever. Marie dies on the first page, and Jonah in the second book. Dan has only ever wanted to get away from him and their dad, and in the last installment, in  _ Swan Song _ , Danny jumps into a cage with Lucifer. Leaving Sean alone. Again. You end the series with the promise that it won’t ever be any other way.”

Cas stares. “Put your phone away and look at the corner.”

The golden hour comes and goes, the sun sets, and another hour passes before Cas finishes.

“You’re done?”

“I am.” Cas packs away the paint. “I went for a level of detail where you wouldn’t have to pose long, to ease you into it.”

“That  _ wasn’t _ long?”

Cas laughs. It makes Dean smile.

He stands, stretches.

“You want to stay?” Cas asks.

“What?”

“What?”

He stares at Cas, still closing jars and capping tubes.

“Wait here,” Cas finally says, leaving the room.

What was that? 

Dean rounds the easel. The paint is wet, and he could watch it dry all night. It’s gorgeous. The hues are warm, the light appearing like a thin veil, but Dean, in his work clothes and disheveled hair on a ratty sofa-chair, outshines it. There’s something bright beneath his skin, making him glow, making him vibrate off the canvas. Cas didn’t include the room’s organised clutter and Dean’s chest twinges at the sight of himself, in the chair, bathed in light, surrounded by nothing but beige walls and hardwood floors. He is alien in the space, an island floating in a whole lot of empty. 

He looks away, spots the paint brushes in the cup, and takes it to the en suite to clean, hopefully without damaging them.

The French doors are open when he steps back out and Cas is on the small balcony. He joins him. It’s chilly and dark except for the lamps Cas turned on inside when the sun set. The moon is out of sight, and the stars are dim.

“I like it.”

Cas exhales with drama, and pushes out a thin cloud of smoke. “Goodie.” His forearms brace against the railing, and his t-shirt looks too large as it hangs off his body in this bent position.

Dean rolls his eyes, smiles despite himself, and plucks the joint from between Cas’ fingers. He takes a drag, relishes the burn moving down his throat as much as he resents it.

“You’re partaking again. I hoped you would,” Cas says.

“Why’s that?”

Cas flexes his hand, stretching the muscles he spent the evening putting to use, and shrugs. “It looked good on you the other night.”

Dean takes another hit. He feels the smoke settle in his shoulder, weighing him down and making him light. “Must be why you didn’t fuck me.”

“You fell asleep,” Cas snaps with playful accusation.

He hands the blunt back. “Our life is twofold. Sleep hath its own world.”

“Now you’re quoting bad poetry at me. I’m being punished.”

His laugh comes easily, and he knocks shoulders with Cas. “You’re a dick.”

“By new unfolding his imprison’d pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope. Being had, to triumph, being lack’d, to hope.”

Dean’s laugh knocks around his ribs before it bursts out. “Which one of us is that about?”

“You’re with me aren’t you?”

“Greatest triumph of my life,” Dean chuckles. “That accent was pretty good.”

“Shakespeare is all about the performance. Especially when it comes to the sonnets about cock.”

“He did like the topic.”

They pass the joint back and forth beneath the sky, massive and empty. It makes him feel small, and tonight that is reassuring. It isn’t always. Cas keeps his eyes on the trees, unless they are on him.

“I think the sky swallowed the stars,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue soft and slow like molasses.

“More bad poetry?” Cas extinguishes the bud on a metal rail, and bends to drop it in a crowded ashtray by the wall.

Dean grins, and swipes a wet tongue over his lips.

“Let me try my hand. Roses are red. And the violets, they are blue…”

“Well?” Dean prompts.

“Rhyming is hard. Like I am for you.” Cas cackles at his own terrible joke.

Each note is loud, piercing, like stars if stars weren’t gas pinned in empty space, and Dean, like the sky, swallows every last one by crashing his lips to Cas’. He stumbles into him, heavy arms feeling too long as they wrap around the warm, thick body. The hands at his waist are hot as they press him into the cool bars.

Cas tastes fucking amazing. Like honey and expensive weed and tongue. It overwhelms him—everything about Cas does. He occupies every vacant space until he’s all Dean’s aware of. The sound of Cas breathing through his nostrils drowns out the cicadas’ song, and the rustling leaves, and— everything but the wet noises they’re making together.

His shirt hikes when Cas slides palms up his body to wrap around Dean’s tie, and Dean shivers at the metal’s cold touch. His neck is tugged forward, and Cas’ lips find his pulse point. Maybe his lungs stop operating.

“You want to know what my favourite poem is?” Cas’ voice dances on the surface of Dean’s skin like a breath. It’s little more than that.

“Tell me,” Dean says, like he could ever tell Cas what to do.

“It’s called  _ Fleas _ .”

Dean’s head reels back as he laughs, and Cas jerks it back into place with a sharp pull.

“You know it, then,” Cas smirks.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean chuckles and stops himself from shaking his head. Cas drags his teeth over the same spot, and Dean’s raw-sounding when he speaks. ”Everyone knows it.”

“Recite it for me.”

“Why?”

“Ask fewer questions.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “‘Adam, had ‘em.’ Happy?”

“Often.”

“What does that mea—”

This kiss is  _ more _ . More demanding, more brutal. More Cas. And Dean wants it all.

Cas lowers to the concrete, motions smooth, and with his tie still held hostage Dean has no choice but to follow. Not that he’s unwilling, just clumsy. Kneeling in front of one another, they work each other’s pants open. Cas feels good, touching him and being touched, but he pulls back from the kiss and the sight of his fingers wrapped around Cas and Cas wrapped around him makes Dean moan. It’s a little whimper of a sound that shifts into something guttural when Cas tugs sharply. 

They kiss more, working each other up to fully hard. Cas keeps one hand on Dean’s tie but allows Dean’s hand to roam. Sometimes he leaves it in Cas’ soft hair, sometimes it fists in Cas’ shirt, sometimes it pulls Cas closer by the neck. Dean takes just as much as he gives.

Cas touches Dean in every right place at every right time until Dean’s muscles jump at the light breeze. Until his mind is more sparks of pleasure than hazy smog. He mirrors Cas and can tell he’s doing well whenever Cas bites his lip.

“That’s it,” Cas pants. “Gonna make me come, Dean.”

Dean wants to lick it off his fingers a lot, and his hole twitches, clenching onto nothing, at the thought. He’s close too, hips doing a desperate roll into Cas’ hand.

“Fuck, no, wait,” someone says. 

It’s him. And he’s pulling back, as far as he can anyway with how Cas coils the tie around his hand to keep him there.

“Just—” He half stands, forced to bend forward, and he reassures Cas he’ll be back with a chaste kiss as he loosens the fingers from his tie. “Hold on.”

He goes inside, struggles to keep his pants from falling until he decides to let them drop. His mind is fuzzy, like he’s wearing a helmet made of something he can’t touch. He leans down to get to his bag and it hits him how odd it was to  _ peck _ Cas.

He heads back out where Cas has laid down on his back, hands tucked under his head, staring up at the near-black sky. Dean straddles him.

“There’s not much to see tonight,” Cas says, nodding to the lack of stars.

“I don’t know about that.” He rips the condom packet open.

Cas looks at him. “You’re already in my pants, Dean. You don’t need to flatter me.” His hands squeeze and pull Dean’s thighs. “Come up here so I can get you wet and ready for me.”

Dean shakes his head, and puts the condom on for Cas. “It’s extra lubricated and I want you now.”

Cas strokes him once, from the base, up the shaft, to the tip where he teases. He gasps as Cas brushes his hole and tugs at his rim, fingers wet from Dean’s own precome. “Greed is a vice.”

He rocks back, chasing Cas’ touch. “I know.”

The hand disappears, reappears at his tie. “As long as you’re aware.”

He shuffles forward and sinks onto Cas, watches his face as he slowly takes him in. Blue eyes watch him right back.

Everything is peaceful, the trees breathe quietly, the sky blankets them like a muted cloak, but the way they move together is turbulent. Dean sets a wicked pace Cas has no problem matching. He digs his fingers into Cas’ thick waist after rucking up the t-shirt, holds on and fucks himself, rough denim scrapping his ass.

Cas wraps the tie around his hand again, and each slow loop pulls Dean closer. They’re kissing when they come.

He buries his face in Cas’ neck, as their raggedy breathing even out. The thump of Cas’ heart steadies, and he gets a pat on the hip before being rolled off.

“Let yourself out, yeah?” Cas says, tying the condom and stepping over the threshold.

It sobers Dean, harsh reality jolting him. He gets himself together and leaves the house quietly, trying not to feel like he looked in Cas’ painting, sad and alone. The dull stars mock him, no longer a comfort.

-

FROM: crackthespine.bookstore@gmail.com   
TO:  dwinchester@wordmil.com   
SUBJECT: Writers Read for Charity

Hello Mr. Winchester,

I hope you are well.   
I thought of you and our conversation at the Rising Writers Gala for this upcoming project I think might be right up your alley.   
We’re inviting authors to host readings at our shop. The proceeds of the events are donated to the Youth Literacy Foundation. 

If you believe some writers at Word Mil might be interested, we’d be honoured to have you.   
  
Thank you for your time and consideration,   
Cassie Robinson


	6. Chapter 6

_ It was never supposed to be Casper. Not a lot of angels know this but Micah planned on sending a different garrison altogether to lay siege to Hell, to rescue the Righteous Man who would start the apocalypse only for his sons to end it. Then again, the Righteous Man was never supposed to be Sean Smith. It was supposed to be Jonah, and Micah chose another angel to lead the mission.  _

_ But Jonah lasted too long in Hell, and escaped when the gates opened, derailing the apocalypse from its schedule. They found an alternative. Manipulating Sean into selling his soul to bring Dan back to life was easy. And ironic: the angels wouldn’t have left Dan dead, being the true vessel of Lucifer and therefore necessary to the Great Battle.  _

_ Micah thought it was fitting for Sean to take his father’s place in Hell, since he had done the same in Heaven. It all would have turned out differently if Jonah hadn’t held out so  _ goddamn _ long. But he did, landing Sean in the pit and once that happened, it really couldn’t have been anyone but Casper.  _

-

“You think we’re getting predictable?” Dean asks as he buttons his dress shirt.

Cas leaves his own tee off like the hickey Dean sucked into his collarbone five minutes ago is all the coverage he needs. “What do you mean?” He tucks himself back into his boxers from his seat at the desk—Dean can bitch about that chair, but he can’t argue with how sturdy it is—and picks up his sketchbook.

“I come over when you have new pages.”

“Go lean against the doorframe— No. Leave your shoes off.”

He positions himself, gauging what is right and what to change from Cas’ expressions. “Then you draw or paint. And then we fuck.” 

Cas’ eyes trace his body analytically. “I fucked you first today. Before drawing.” He taps his pencil against his sketchbook to prove his point.

“Oh yeah, we’re gettin’ real wild now.”

Cas meets his eyes, grins, and gets to drawing.

“So,” Dean says after a while. He trails off. Cas doesn’t even notice.

He looks around the room. The wooden shelves built into the walls are bare, boxed books at their feet instead. The cardboard flaps to most of the boxes are open, novels stacked high, sometimes spilling out and covering the floorboards. The top book of the nearest tower is  _ What I want to be (before I grow up) _ by Lilith White.

“You got the book.”

Cas looks up. “Which— Oh. Yes. It’s in the good pile.”

Dean scans the room again, noticing that the boxes are sectioned. “You’ve organised them,” he realises. “And here I thought you were a disorderly slob.”

With his pencil Cas points to Lilith’s novel, then angles it around the room like the hands of a clock, labelling each cluster as he goes. “Good. Bearable. Could have been decent. Tragic.” The last one is the biggest, and takes up an entire corner.

“Why keep them if they’re no good?”

“I’m too environmentally conscious to throw them out.”

“Environmentally conscious my perky ass. You gave me printed copies of your work instead of electronic copies for months.”

“I could tell you like to go through physical pages at least once. No harm no foul.”

Dean blinks. “You could donate them. The books.”

“So they’re somewhere someone will buy and read them? No. I am not perpetuating the problem.”

“But you are. You think  _ Supernatural _ is garbage, right? You still put it out.”

“Past-tense. I ended that series, remember?”

“And you think so highly of Bomb Girl.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“You’re evading the question.”

“It was a statement.”

“ _ Cas _ .”

Cas laughs. “What do you want me to say, Dean?”

“I want you to admit that you’re a hypocrite.”

“Why?”

_ Why? _

Why does he want to ruffle Cas’ feathers?

Cas says, “I’m contractually obligated to write six novels for Word Mil.”

“You are?” Dean saw Cas’ initial contract, but none of the following ones. That explains why Cas is still writing even though he doesn’t care and doesn’t need the money. 

Cas nods. “Meg found a loophole—or hired a lawyer to find a loophole—so not all six books had to be part of  _ Supernatural _ .”

“Then she pitched Bomb Girl.”

“Michael wouldn’t go for much else. I assure you, Dean, I have equal amounts of contempt for my own work as I do other novels that cater to the masses.”

“Why do you read so much terrible crap then?” 

“To get to the good ones, of course. That’s how it is with most things.” Cas nods towards Dean. “Got to weed through what’s not a match.” No, he nods to the ‘Good Pile’. Not him.

-

FROM: castielnovak@gmail.com

TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com

SUBJECT: Next meeting

Expecting you Wednesday afternoon.

-

Dean doesn’t find Cas in his office or in his bed when he shows up bright and early one Saturday. He finds Cas in the yard.

It smells like flowers, dirt and honey as soon as he opens the backdoor. The sun is high and rising still, and the grass glows. He uses a hand as a visor and spots Cas by the treeline.

“Hey,” he says when he’s close enough not to shout.

Cas lazily moves the arm that’s slung over his eyes to squint up at him. “You’re late.”

He plops down and rests his elbows on his knees. “I’m not.”

“Well, you’re not as early as I’d like.”

“Missed me, Cas?”

“You find that unbelievable?”

He can’t read Cas like this, not with his eyes more blue than usual which is already too blue, and not with a smile that’s wide and gummy and made soft by the deceptive sunshine.

“You already working on something?” Dean says instead of answering, and nods to the easel and stool a few feet away.

“Not yet. I wanted to do you out here.”

Dean looks over to the massive hedges that line the yard. Neighbours wouldn’t be able to peek.

“I mean paint you, Dean.”

It’s hot in his jeans and t-shirt and plaid, but that’s not why he flushes pink.

Cas laughs and holds a hand out for him. “But of course fucking you can be arranged.”

Dean leans in until Cas’ fingers wrap around the back of his neck and he is brought the rest of the way down to soft and dry lips.

Hours later, the sun is past its peak, and they are in the same position again. There’s a layer of plaid missing, and an array of paint stains on Cas, his shirt, his jeans, but his hands most of all. Hands that now card through Dean’s hair, tugging on occasion.

Dean shifts so he’s on his side, straddling one of Cas’ legs and pressing him into the grass. They kiss like it’s a game, teasing one another, biting just a little, then they kiss long and slow like they plan to keep it up all afternoon.

Dean rocks his hips against Cas’ thick thigh and something vibrates between them.

“Do you have a surprise for me, Dean?”

Dean laughs and shoves at Cas’ shoulder, rolling onto his back to dig his phone out of his pocket.

“Talk to me,” he says without checking the ID, and relaxes into the dense grass. It’ll probably stain his t-shirt, but that’s fine.

“Hey, Dean.” It’s Sam. And he’s nervous. “I have a favour to ask.”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“Absolutely not.”

“ _ Dean _ —”

“I’m not gonna cave, Sammy.”

Cas raises a brow at him, moves in close and kisses him below the ear. His breath is cool in the heat, and his teeth are sharp as he nips Dean’s earlobe before rising to his feet.

Sam whines like a child the way he has a thousand times, what feels like a thousand years ago. “You did when I was sixteen. You gave me the keys and a pack of condoms, and told me to be a gentleman.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I remember.”

“And do you remember what I said when I got back, car intact?”

“You said you’re going to marry that girl. But  _ I _ told _ you _ I was lending you Baby only the one time—”

“And I did. I married her. Now it’s our anniversary, and we want to recreate our first date. You’re really going to deny us that?”

He groans. Sam’s going to get to him, he can feel it.

“C’mon, Dean. Nothing crazy. We’re going to the burger joint and then just outside of the city to Make Out Point.”

“Do they still call it that?”

“Maybe.” He imagines Sam giving him the same look he did when he was a gangly teenager, puppy eyes and all.

“Christ, fine _ , _ but you’re naming your first kid after me.”

“No, we’re not doing that.”

“Fine, but I get to give them their first beer when the right moment strikes.”

“No, we’re not letting you do that.”

He glares up at the sky and at the lone cloud travelling across it. He’s got a right to be the cool uncle, dammit.

“But,” Sam starts like he had this bargaining chip tucked away the whole time. “I’ll set you up with one of Jess’ friends so you can drive the Impa– Baby to a place that is not work related.”

Dean stills and looks over to Cas. He’s by the easel, packing away the paint tray he had set up on the stool. Sometimes he glances at the canvas. Sometimes he glances at Dean.

He hasn’t been dating. He and Cas are doing  _ something _ , but it’s not that. Not really. It’s not like Dean even has time to date. On top of whatever the fuck is going on between him and Cas, he’s got work, prepping his ideas for when he’s head of Editorial which is right around the corner. And he’s only been seeing Benny and Charlie regularly again for a few weeks. And he’s finally getting somewhere with Cas’ manuscript. That’s gotta be his priority.

He looks at the cloud again. Was it shaped like a baby in diapers a minute ago?

“You should hang up before I change my mind,” Dean advises.

“Thanks, man,” Sam says after a cheer and girl’s giggle, sounding like the adult he is. The one Dean raised him to be. “Really.”

There’s no need to say more so he hangs up, smiling.

He potters to his feet and brushes himself off before he rounds the easel to stand by Cas. He hasn’t seen the painting yet; Cas tackled him back to the ground when he’d gotten up to have a look earlier. Dean didn’t argue. Laying in well kept, fresh smelling grass, and kissing Cas wasn’t something to complain about.

Cas lets him take his time to look it over now while he finishes with his tray. 

Dean isn’t really there. It’s a landscape much more than it is a portrait. Hues of green forming the long stretch of lawn and the seemingly endless patch of trees. Dean is also in greens, blended into the background, that’s more foreground than anything else. He’s like a mirage, a clever trick on the eyes. Cas made him belong to the trees, like he is part of the fabric of nature. Something that has grown in Cas’ backyard and is as rooted to the ground as the oak behind him.

“It’s like I’m not even there.”

Cas shakes his head in the corner of his eye. “You’re on every inch of that canvas.” He picks up his tray. “We can leave it out to dry. Grab the stool.” 

Dean ties his flannel around his hips and picks up the seat to follow Cas inside.

“Was that your sister?” Cas asks. “On the phone.”

“What makes you think I have a sister?”

“Everything about you. You scream overprotective sibling.”

Dean hikes the stool up as he walks. “Kid brother.”

“Hmm, close enough.” The back door squeaks and Cas holds it open for him.

“You’re a mind boggling mentalist with extraordinary gifts.” 

It’s cooler inside as they round the stairs and head up to the painting room.

“You have siblings, right? You called them a boring troupe,” Dean says.

“Sounds like me.”

“They’re family.”

“They’re mundane. It’s fine. They don’t have a responsibility not to be. They’re just different.” Cas pauses at the landing. “Or more accurately, I am.”

“You’re the black sheep of the family. I never would have guessed.”

Cas snorts, and continues to the studio. “I suppose I had fewer opportunities to bond with my brothers and sisters. I went to boarding instead of the local high school.”

“You did?” Dean walks sideways into the room and gingerly puts down the stool. He half sits on it while Cas puts away his supplies.

“North American Academy for the Young and Gifted. Must be where I picked up my mentalist powers.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “The school for brainiacs? What the fuck’s your IQ, man? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Jeez, though.” He runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “Explains a lot.”

Cas turns to face him, wiping his hands with a cloth. “What do you mean?

He shrugs. “Just that you’re offbeat.”

“Offbeat. You’re full of tact, today.”

“And you’re in an unusual sharing mood.”

“Tell me about Sammy.”

“Why? Do you feel uncomfortable that I know more about you than you do me?”

Cas laughs, tosses the rag behind him and steps closer until he’s standing between Dean’s legs. He tilts his head. “Is that what you think?” 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He won’t be intimidated. Not by the bluest eyes and not by the light touch on his knees.

“You’re an open book, Dean.”

He schools his face to not give anything away. There’s nothing  _ to _ give away in the first place but if there is, he wants to keep it to himself.

“It’s how I know you’ve wanted to ask me something all day.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve told you before that you’re not very good at it.” 

Cas steps away and Dean misses the warmth between his thighs. It’s easier to concentrate on that than on how well Cas can read him. How exposed he is under that keen gaze.

“What is it, Dean? You want a threesome?” Cas grins at him. “Want to dabble more in your obvious exhibition kink? Want me to choke you during sex?”

“What? No! Cas, no.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“What. This is a work thing.”

“Oh.” Cas frowns. “I gave you chapter four this week. We’re on schedule for the deadline as per our agreement.”

“I was contacted for readings at a booksto—”

“No.”

“I know you don’t like public events, but—”

“Then why are you asking?” Cas crosses his arms.

Dean stands to his full height, and narrows his eyes. “I’m not.”

“You’re not.”

“No, and if you weren’t busy interrupting me and shoving your head even further up your own ass, you’d know. I’m not  _ asking _ you to do anything. I’m informing you that Writers Read for Charity is a thing in case you’re interested.”

“Which charity?”

Dean’s jaw slackens. “Uh… Youth Literacy Foundation.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

-

Cas Novak   
10:03 pm   
Come over again tomorrow.

-

“Finally,” Cas says as he yanks the front door open.

Dean is holding his key where the lock should be. Was Cas waiting by the window?

“I got you a present.”

“Tell me why that scares me.” 

Cas pulls him into the house. “Be a brave little soldier, Dean, and open.”

Cas picks up a box from the end table and hands it over. He leans against the back of the sofa looking like the poster boy for casual, but the large grin on his face, the one that’s playful and mischievous, is unnerving. And thrills Dean like those books that make him fall in love with reading all over again.

The box is the size of a thick paperback novel, and the navy exterior is nice to the touch. Dean raises a brow at Cas, who eggs him on with a bigger smile. He lifts the lid, eyes locked with Cas’, accepting the challenge. He looks down and finds a clear, ring-shaped piece of plastic sitting on beige felt lining. No—it’s silicone.

Dean furrows his brows. “Is this for a tossing game or something?”

Cas isn’t smiling anymore, eyes glinting instead. “Or something.” He licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “I definitely want to play.”

 

Cas ties him to the bed with something silky, and slides the cock ring on. Both feel nice, the cool, smooth fabric at his wrists, and the growing pressure in his dick.

“We're going to have so much fun.”

“Are you threatening me with a good time?”

Cas laughs. Dean loves making him do that.

An hour and Dean is past testing the bonds; he’s straining against them now, pulling and tugging, muscles taut and trembling from exertion, but there's no give. The sheets are damp where he writhes on them, and his heels dig craters into the mattress.

When Cas swipes his thumb against his slit, his hips buck up, chasing elusive pleasure, and Cas’ tongue slips out of his hole.

Dean whines a prayer and Cas smooths his hand down his inner thigh. Even that is too much; the touch sparks at to the very tip of his dick.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” Cas’ undivided attention is overwhelming to have on him. It’s a lot, and Dean shouldn’t get off on it, but he does. Cas doesn’t do hand outs with his time.

Something circles his rim, tugs, and it has to be Cas’ finger but Dean can’t focus. Can't think, can't process. It dips inside, just a bit and then all the way, before it's joined by the unmistakable feel of tongue again. Cas likes to work Dean with pointed precision only to switch to sloppy enthusiasm, keeping Dean wired. 

A hand returns to his cock and jerks him at an infuriating pace, one that'd be too slow to get him where he wants to go if Dean wasn't already so desperate. If he hadn't already been brought to the edge, what, four? five times?

He’s there again, ready to tip over, ready for every charged thing inside him to fire off.

Cas slows until he’s barely moving at all.

“No, no, no,” he sobs. “Cas,  _ no _ , stop.”

The hand disappears, and Cas pulls away from him entirely save for a slick, reassuring hand on Dean’s knee. 

“No, fuck, don’t stop.”

“You’re sending mixed signals.”

Dean blinks the mist free from his eyes to look at Cas. His face is void of any teasing, bordering on concerned.

“I want to come.” He sounds wrecked. He is wrecked.

Cas grins. “That’s not how this works.”

“Yes it is,” Dean whines, and thrashes against the restraints.

Cas shushes him, runs the hand down to his ankle then back up. “Doesn’t it feel good, Dean? Other than the obvious.”

Dean nods, and Cas smiles, soft and… and what Dean would call fond if he didn’t know better.

“It’ll be worth it.”

Dean nods again, whispers, “Okay, Cas.”

“You’ve no idea,” Cas says. “You’re always gorgeous, but like this… you’re something else entirely.”

Cas lowers himself so he can lick Dean open all over again so Dean doesn’t have to hide his blush. Or deal with knowing eyes. He twists his wrists to grip the silk with his fingers; he needs to hold onto something. He wishes it was Cas.

When he finally gets to come, it’s everything Cas promised it’d be.

The second time, with Cas sliding home inside of him, is even better.

Cas makes him stay in bed for a long time. Hours? He rubs Dean’s wrists like they’re fragile, and kisses his temple like he’s precious, and it’s all very strange until he tells Dean to leave before his guests arrive.

“Since when do you have guests?” Dean asks, loose-limbed as he pulls on pants.

Cas fiddles with a lighter, still sprawled on the mattress and leaning against the headboard, wearing a thin t-shirt and sweatpants low enough that his hip bones peak out. He doesn’t touch the joint on his bedside table. Bela Talbot’s card—or what’s left of it—is beside it. Cas used a strip for the filter.

“You’re asking all sorts of irrelevant questions for someone who couldn’t talk twenty minutes ago,” Cas gloats.

“Whose fault was that?”

Dean rolls his eyes at Cas’ complacent smirk, and pulls his button-up over his shoulders. He smiles all the way down the stairs to the front door, a hot hand burning the base of his spine.

“Jesus, Cas. Did you want me to climb out the window?”

Cas shoves him into the wood, and the door knob digs where Cas last touched him. “Maybe I should have left you tied up. Kept you for later.”

The kiss is more bite than anything else, but they laugh their way through it. Dean gets handsy, palming Cas’ ass through the sweats.

“We need to have a conversation about safewords,” Cas murmurs.

There’s a knock before Dean can answer. Cas swings the door open, a beaming smile in place.

“Clarence,” Meg says. Dean’s still behind the door but her voice has an unforgettable quality.

“Megara.”

“Cassie!” a choir of children sing. What?

Dean peers around the door and four kids zoom past Meg, knocking into her legs before colliding with Cas. They latch onto him, each finding their own limb to cling to, and bounce on the balls of their feet. They talk in tandem, squealing and shouting things Dean can’t decipher. Cas looks down adoringly. 

When they quiet, he patiently answers every single thing they addressed ending on the promise that they’ll get to make a new deck and play the game with the funky cards. Whatever that is. 

“Okay, shoo,” Meg says, making sweeping motions with her hands. “Backyard now. Castiel will be right there.”

The kids giggle and rush off, like a windstorm moving through the house.

“Dean,” Meg starts, eyeing him. “How...lovely...to see you outside of office hours.”

Cas laughs, “He’s leaving, Meg.”

“He doesn’t have to do that. Looks like he just came.”

Dean shifts, clears his throat, doesn’t pull at the collar of his shirt no matter how hot he feels.

“I didn’t know you had kids.”

“Oh god no. Those little demons are not tolerable and not mine. My brother’s the one with the nasty penchant for reproducing.”

“If she’s left alone with them overnight, Hell breaks loose,” Cas stage whispers.

Meg rolls her eyes and strolls into the house. “I’ve got time to eat your food before I get to go be an adult that does adult things with other adults.”

Cas falls into stride beside her, saying something about how the four rugrats could outsmart Meg’s friends, and leaving Dean behind by the open door.

-

Cas Novak   
8:37 am   
Did you leave yet?

Cas Novak   
8:39 am   
Wear suspenders

-

It’s late but Dean is still at Cas’ anyway, kneeling on the living room carpet and holding Cas’ cock in his mouth. Sometimes he gives a gentle suck, or a quick swipe of tongue, but mostly he just wraps his lips tight around it.

He keeps his eyes on Cas, who glances between him and the sketchpad.

Breathy, Cas says, “Since before the awful gala you had us go to, I’ve wanted to draw you like this.”

Dean hums, feeling both light, and anchored by the weight on his tongue.

“Fuck, and you love it.”

He nods as best he can, and moans when Cas adds, “Racy.” And then, “Gorgeous.”

His dick twitches where it’s sticking out of his boxers; he’s been hard since Cas started sketching. 

“Go on,” Cas says, putting the pad down on the cushion beside him to card pretty hands through Dean’s hair. “Take a little more.”

Dean obeys. This feels good. Feels right. Feels peaceful.

When Dean wakes up, he vaguely remembers being guided up the stairs and to bed. His pants are off, and there’s residual streaks of drying come on his boxers, whatever didn’t get wiped up, and he’s well rested— What kind of mattress is this? Memory foam?

Cas’ sketchbook is on the duvet, while Cas is not, so Dean stretches, joints popping in satisfaction, and flips it open. He skips the landscapes at the beginning, the close ups of flowers, grass blades and beehives, and the drawings of him, dozens of them from the past weeks, to get to the one from last night. 

Cas is fucking talented, and a glance at his own shoulders proves that Cas is also precise; Dean’s freckles are all there.

His eyes are impossibly large, even half-lidded, and shiny; he runs his finger over them to prove to himself that the paper isn’t wet, that the drawing isn’t alive, coming off the page to scream his desires back at him.

This is what he looked like? Eyes wanting. Lips swollen, begging the only way they could at the time. The hair not matted down by sweat sticking out every which way. Fingertips digging into the flesh of Cas’ thighs like letting go would set him adrift.

Dean spends too much time here. More than when Cas wasn’t getting any work done. But Dean hasn’t felt this good in a long while. It’s not just the relief of not having to worry about Cas’ book. There’s a piece falling into place inside him, in a slot he didn’t know was empty. He used to think he had it made before he got assigned Cas, but looking back it all seems… bland. Like his life is prose that only learned about  _ show don’t tell _ when Cas showed up.

It’s all the goddamn orgasms talking.

He flips the page in frustration, and expects the next one to be blank, but there’s another sketch of him, sleeping this time. The shading makes him think they’re from this morning, not last night.

He should be creeped out by this.

Why isn’t he?

How do Cas’ eyes on him make him feel valued even when Cas spews filth? He’s so fucking backwards, making Cas smile has become some sort of priority, making him laugh an achievement. He used to be nervous about talking to Cas, afraid to stick his foot in his mouth, of proving to Cas that he really is run of the mill, as humdrum as the next guy, but conversations are effortless now. And endless in the best way; they’ll pose and draw and talk for hours at a time. There’s an ease to being in this cobblestone house.

Once, he caught himself driving to Cas’ after work instead of his apartment on a day they hadn’t made plans. The second time it happened, he didn’t turn back.

“You always wake up too early,” Cas admonishes from the doorway, carrying a flat, tin container.

“You’re creepy.”

Cas climbs onto the bed, kneels near him, and a searing hand that might as well be hellfire lands on his calf. “You’re the one snooping through things that aren’t yours.” He’s all smiles.

“You’re really good, Cas.”

Cas bites his lip, and Dean decides that’s for him to do. “Lean back. I want to do you in charcoal.”

Dean does as he’s told instead of kissing Cas until they can’t breathe. “You don’t get bored? Drawing the same thing over and over again?” 

“You’re a good subject.”

Cas opens the box—Dean wants the hand back on him—and picks out a piece of what looks like black chalk; it immediately stains his fingertips.

Charcoal against paper sounds good, soothing, and it’d have lulled Dean back to sleep if his morning thoughts hadn’t wired him up. He relaxes into the mattress and watches Cas, who draws with his fingers and a weird gum-like blob just as much as he does with the charcoal, getting his hands even dirtier.

They talk about the first novels they remember reading, the last ones. Dean tells Cas about how he’d steal books from one town’s library, only to return them to another’s. He tells Cas about how they were always on the move.

“You never considered writing yourself?” Cas asks.

He shakes his head. “I get the appeal. I get it a lot, actually. I want to create something, too. Something that’s mine and important.”

“But?” Cas stops drawing, and looks at him.

“No but. I’m not a writer and I’m not interested in becoming one. Being an editor is enough for now, until I figure out what that something is.” 

Being Head of Editorial is what it is. Having that big of an impact on the market, showcasing voices that are diverse and fresh. That’s his mark on the world.

“Do you have a but?”

Cas says, “What do you mean?”

“ _ Supernatural _ is a phenomenon but not one you care about. What’s your something meaningful?”

Cas furrows his brows, and they’re quiet for at least a minute. “I don’t live with that in mind. The big picture doesn’t interest me.” His voice wavers, “Life’s about the little things.”

“It’s not about doing something big. Just something bigger than yourself.”

Cas’ frown deepens and he goes back to drawing.

They talk about college. About the bees. About Sam, though Cas mostly listens to that while Dean raves with pride.

“Wait, remind me. Hannah is Jacob’s twin right?”

“Yes,” Cas murmurs, eyes trained on the arm Dean has resting on a bent knee, hand dancing over the paper.

“How come none of your siblings have weird ass names like yours?”

Cas rolls his eyes, asks, “You want to try?”

“What?”

“You’ve been watching my hands.”

“They’re nice hands.”

Cas laughs. “Here.” He turns the sketchbook around and turns to a new page. Dean only catches a glimpse of the life-like grayscale image. Cas switches the charcoal he was using for another, one with a rounded tip. “This one is lighter. It’ll be more forgiving.”

Dean takes it; Cas held the piece between them didn’t give him much of a choice. He sits up and tucks a foot under his ass, setting the sketchbook on that thigh. “Now what?”

Cas glides forward—every move he makes is elegant—and straddles Dean’s outstretched leg to share Dean’s viewpoint. “Pick something to draw.”

The room is bare other than the bed, nightstands, and one potted plant in the corner. “Really?”

Cas chuckles. “Look at the lamp. Don’t think of it as a lamp, just look at the shapes that compose it.”

Dean draws a sad, wobbly trapezoid.

“Loosen your grip.” Cas wraps long fingers around Dean’s fist, smudging charcoal onto his knuckles. “Good,” Cas says lowly, and the rumble of voice pervades into Dean’s bones. “Short strokes, your eye will find the best line in all the small ones.” 

Dean lets Cas guide his hand.

“Good,” Cas repeats, a whisper right in his ear. “You barely have to graze the paper, just like that.”

Cas lets go for him to continue, assuring that he only needs a rough outline. Five fingerprints appear on his elbow when Cas angles it, making Dean more comfortable. Cas slides his hand down Dean’s forearm, leaving dark streaks behind and wraps it around Dean’s hand again.

“You’re getting me dirty,” Dean rasps. 

Cas nods, chin knocking with his shoulder. “I want you to think in terms of shadows. Make it dark on the paper where is it dark in real life, keep it light where it’s light.”

The lampshade turns out lopsided and wonky looking, and the lamp’s base is a bigger mess, but it isn’t too shabby. Not that it matters now that Dean’s on his back, drawing on Cas’ chest above him with blackened fingertips.

“You’re getting me dirty, Dean,” Cas echoes, absentmindedly printing his hand on Dean’s shoulder while his eyes smirk with unnerving focus.

He pulls Cas down by the neck to finally,  _ finally  _ bite his lip, and kiss and kiss and kiss. Dean’s not a writer but by the time they finish, there’s a story told on their skin. The ending isn’t even the best part—it’s fucking great, don’t get him wrong—but Cas kissed the soft part of his stomach, and connected his freckles so they look like a lotus, and held him so tightly red bloomed under the grey smudges. Those parts were better than coming.

They shower together—it’s efficient more than anything else; Cas smacks his ass once claiming that he  _ couldn’t help it _ —but Dean dresses alone, Cas opting out and wandering out of the room. The fucking nudist. 

Jesus, fuck, he was into a nudist.

“Hey,” Cas calls when Dean passes the kitchen on his way to the front door.

He looks over and Cas nods to the second bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch on the kitchen island.

They have breakfast together too.

-

_ The first time Casper lays eyes, or his true form’s equivalent of eyes, on Sean Smith he is coerced into it.  _

_ Gabrielle took an interest in him in the past twenty or so years, after Annael fell and Casper was promoted to Captain of his garrison. Annael had… unorthodox ways and while that got her heat from most of the Heavenly Host, Gabrielle always liked her for it. Casper suspects he is serving as her replacement, which doesn’t please him but he won’t argue about it. You don’t argue with an archangel. Even if it is Gabrielle, arguably the most lenient of the Four. Gabrielle is eccentric, which is why she got along with Annael in the first place. Casper is not. _

_ He doesn’t fight as he’s dragged to where they can peer down to Earth, but he does brave a question. “I am not like her, Gabrielle. Nothing like you. I always obey and I always do as I’m told. Why have you chosen to take me under your wing?” _

_ Gabrielle gives Casper a sad look. Well, what equates that in their current bodiless disposition. It runs deeper than a look, really. She oozes a melancholy that seeps into Casper, tangles with his grace for a heartbreaking moment. _

_ “You’ve no idea,” she speaks, more morose than Casper has ever heard her, weighed down by a truth he isn’t privy to. _

_ He is made to forget his numerous reprogrammings at Anomi’s hand. There is a reason why Micah never intended for Casper to be the one who saves the Righteous Man despite being the best warrior for the job, and this is it. He is too prone to having thoughts of his own. Too fond of humanity when he’s allowed near them.  _

_ “You’ll like it, I swear.” Gabrielle assures him with a grin that chases away the sorrow. _

_ He goes along with it despite his confusion. It’s always a little debilitating when Gabrielle emotes; very few angels do so with as much intensity.  _

_ “Besides,” Gabrielle continues. “Everyone is watching today.” _

_ “Is it nineteen seventy nine already?” The years feel like minutes when you’ve existed for millennia. _

_ “As of twenty four days ago.” _

_ The conversation stalls, and they finally glance down. All of Heaven does, breaths held, to witness the very beginnings of Paradise. _

_ Casper knows them to be Jonah and Marie Smith, the young man that herds a very pregnant blonde into a modern car. It’s black and sleek, modern-looking, and well loved. Marie cusses it out. _

_ “I swear to God—” Casper chuckles at that. “—if I end up having to  _ give birth _ in this  _ thing _ , I will—” _

_ “Baby, the hospital is just a few minutes away,” Jonah says, all smiles and bustling excitement. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing.” _

_ “Other than the watermelon trying to shove its way out of my vagina? Sure, Jon,” Marie snips, doing her best to breathe like she was taught to. _

_ “Don’t talk about our son like that.” He beams and narrowly dodged a slap. _

_ At the wheel, he breathes deliberately, giving her something to imitate. The look they share is soft enough to call love. _

_ It isn’t long before the watermelon they end up calling Sean comes to be. Humans call it the miracle of life euphemistically, but Casper thinks they might be right. Or perhaps it is this birth in particular that is wondrous. He can see the lush green of Paradise in the boy’s eyes. Eyes who will grow up to see too much, more than is fair, but Casper does not know this yet. What he knows is that this boy is the sword, Micah’s to wield. He has a prophecy to fulfil and he will. Casper has no doubts. _

-

Dean Winchester (editor)   
2:18 pm   
Heads up: I’m on my way early

-

“Read it back to me,” Castiel whispers once Dean’s typing slows to a stop.

“Okay, um… ‘She doesn’t roll her eyes but she might as well have. I can hear it in her voice. “You’re going to tell me something profound now?” I laugh.’” Dean’s voice trembles and he pauses to breathe.

Castiel noses up the back of Dean’s neck and along his hairline. “Keep going.”

“I laugh and ask, ‘Like what?’ She does rolls her eyes this t-time, leaves them pointed towards the sky as though something there can help her.”

“No moving, Dean,” he reminds when Dean shifts and his dick buries deeper inside the soft heat.

“ _ Cas _ .” Dean grinds in his lap, wanton and needy and perfect. Castiel smacks him, high on the side of his thigh, and kisses his shoulder on the same beat. “Fuck me, please.”

“Type for me. Something there can help her, but...” But? “No ‘but’. Write: She’s wrong. The stars don’t have any answers.”

Dean’s fingers shake over the keyboard, but he gets the words down. Of course he does. Dean is tenacious even when he’s compliant and his clothes are off. He’s always so good for Castiel. Eager to please; he gets off on it. Castiel doesn’t mind obliging him. The satisfaction of holding Dean afterward might have something to do with it. Might. He isn’t interested in jumping to any conclusions.

Dean’s knuckles turn white where they grip the edge of his desk, and his shallow breathing deepens. It’s lovely how hard he tries. Castiel abandons bare hips to wrap his arms around Dean’s torso, to feel him inhale, sweat, shiver. Dean whines in the back of his throat and Castiel’s dick twitches inside him in response.

“Alright,” Castiel concedes, rolling his hips once, the chair squeaking beneath them.

“Jesus Christ, Cas.”

“I’m going to give you what you want.” The words weren’t coming to him anyway.

“You always—” Dean bears down with the newfound permission, and curses. “You always do.”

He laughs, kisses the nape of Dean’s neck, and prompts Dean to stand and bend over the desk. “I should have known you were a sap.” He gets to his feet, too, lines himself with Dean’s wet and ready hole.

“The way I know you’re stuck on that scene?”

He slams inside and gasps in the sharp breath Dean exhales. This vertigo is new, no ground beneath him and only Dean to hold onto—which he does, tightly and with both hands.

“What’s’a matter?” Dean hums while Castiel draws out. “You don’t like that I know you’re invested in this book?”

Dean’s enthusiasm about the story and characters turned out to be contagious. He’s caught himself caring and making a genuine attempt with this novel. Writing is more interesting than it’s ever been before. A challenge.

“I like it more than  _ Supernatural _ , I’ll give you that.”

Dean half laughs half moans, and fucks himself back on Castiel’s dick. “I’ll take it.”

“You always do.”

He winks when Dean glares over his shoulder, and gives his asscheek a spank because he can.

The pace they set is fast, desperate, and the sounds they make imprint onto the air. Castiel keeps one hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, stroking only once in a while, and the other on Dean’s lower back, a thumb fitted into one of two dimples Dean has there.

After, they share one of the eclairs Dean brought. Castiel asked what it would cost him this time when he saw them. Dean said he’d been with Benny and had thought of him.

Dean’s earnest desire to contribute and his personal brand of naive clash with the rest of him, which is hard and weathered. The cognitive dissonance is compelling, attractive. It keeps Castiel guessing and curious of what he’ll find with each layer he peels back.

Castiel sits in his chair, which Dean admits he’s grown fond of, while Dean perches on the desk in front of him, naked as per Cas’ request, legs swinging. 

“What’s the purpose of the conversation they’re having?” Dean asks.

He was right. The current scene Castiel is writing is giving him a hard time. 

Dean leans forward to take a bite out of the pastry he holds out, and continues around the mouthful, “We know Olivia can’t—or won’t tell June how she feels.”

“She can’t. Not without her Bomb Heart—”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“—setting something off.” 

He chomps on the eclair. He’s been hammering away at this for an embarrassing amount of time. Though, Dean hasn’t judged him for it once. Is this what writers go through all the time? Why would anyone sign up for this willingly?

Dean nudges his knee with a foot, lets it rest there when Castiel wraps his free hand around his ankle. “So Olivia is being a little shit instead. How is that moving the plot forward?”

He grunts, and rattles the chair to get his frustrations out. “I don’t know, Dean. They need to admit things to each other, but they won’t.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Talk like your characters have minds of their own. None of this is their fault. You’re the one who won’t let them confess their lesbian love to each other.”

He shoves Dean’s foot off. “Be quiet.”

Dean chuckles, and it turns into a full bodied laugh. “You’re really stuck on this, huh?”

“Isn’t it your job to help?”

“I can help and take pleasure in your discomfort at the same time.” Dean laughs again. “You’re pouting and it’s disturbing and adorable.”

“You’re not getting any more of this,” he says, and shoves the too big piece of eclair that’s left in his mouth.

“Mm, that’s fair. Maybe you need to cut the scene.”

He chews, thinks. “Is that your professional opinion?” 

Dean nods, and a foot hooks the chair to draw him closer before it rests on his knee again. “It’s my professional opinion that you should consider it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I just need…” To see it better. “Come on.” He stands and reaches for his pants. “Put some clothes on for god’s sake. You’re indecent.” 

Dean’s laugh is a sweet breeze. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“I don’t like it either, but we’re going out.”

 

They’re fully dressed and on his front lawn, but his driveway is vacant.

“Where’s your car?” he asks, twisting to look at Dean lock the door.

“I lent it to Sam. He dropped me off.”

Dean walks towards him and into the low sun’s golden rays. His hair looks almost blond like this, skin bronzed, and eyes twinkling. Too handsome is what he is. Castiel is going to have to draw and paint him in the yard again. Everything looks gentler in this sunshine, and Castiel can see the soft, sinuous lines; he wants to put them to paper, wants the warm hues immortalised. 

“Where’s your car?” Dean asks, already walking towards the garage door.

“I don’t have one.”

Dean spins on his heels. “You don’t have a car?”

“I don’t need one.”

“You know, I’ve been kidding with all the hermit jokes but I am mildly concerned.”

“Touching. I’m calling us a cab.”

“Do you need to go back inside for a landline, or do you have a cell phone?”

“You keep giving me attitude. See how that works out for you.”

Dean swallows, but his eyes spark. Castiel wants him too much. 

 

“Where are we?

Castiel breathes in the scent of earth and flowers. “A field I like.” A place he loves. “It’s a shame the sun has set, it’s gorgeous in the day. I’ll bring you again some time.”

“Okay.” Dean nods slow, green eyes heavy like a touch.

“Follow me.” He walks ahead, between two rows of tall violet plants.

“And we’re here because?”

“I need to see the scene to write it.” He stops when they’re deep enough, and turns back to Dean.

“Look at you. You sound like a real author, but I hate to break it to you, Cas, your book is in space, not the wild.”

“This is hardly the wil— Nevermind.”

He steps closer, gaze intent on Dean. He doesn’t want to miss a thing, wants to catalogue each expression. With a curled finger under Dean’s chin, he tilts his pretty head back.

His face opens beautifully, awed and lit up by the bright sky.

“There are so many,” Dean breathes. “There are more stars than there is sky.”

“That’s the idea.”

“I’ve—” Dean looks at him, and Castiel shifts under eyes more brilliant than the worlds above them. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He smiles. “Let’s lay down.”

They stretch along the length of the path, heads side by side and bodies pointing in opposite directions. They stare upwards, when they aren’t staring at each other. Castiel can’t decide which sight merits his attention more.

Except he already has.

The air is calm and fragrant, the space undisrupted but dynamic the way nature always is: critters chirp in the distance, the violets rustle, and the sky winks at him.

“Can you see it yet?” Dean whispers. “The scene.”

“I’m seeing things, yes.” He keeps his voice low too.

“Okay, that’s...good.” 

Dean’s fingertips brush his hair. This moment is nice. The sort of stuff a good life is made of.

“I forget sometimes that you’re just like my other writers, because, well, you’re not. I should tell you that you’ve been doing a really great job, Cas. You’re nearing the finish line.”

“Is this positive reinforcement?”

“It’s acknowledgment. This book matters to me. I’m glad it does to you too.”

Cas maneuvers as quiet as he can manage, and once Dean is between him and the ground, and he’s between Dean and the stars, he doesn’t move for a long while.

 

The driver has the radio on when they climb into the cab, and it’s a pleasant buzz in the background. Castiel barely pays attention to it, captivated by Dean instead.

— _ And I'd give up forever to touch you, Cause I know that you feel me somehow, You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be— _

Dean was gorgeous bathed in sunlight earlier, stunning under the dark speckled sky, but here, in a grimey taxi cab with passing streetlights to illuminate him and home as the destination, he’s his.

_ —still not over tonight’s game. The Hunters won by a landslide, and— _

The driver  _ woots _ at the score, but he might as well not be there at all. The backseat is a secluded place. Intimate even with their clothes on. Dean is turned towards him, a knee brushing his thigh where it’s hiked on the seat, neck cradled by the headrest. Tired eyes are steady on his own, and they make it easier to breathe.

Dean smiles, a lethargic stretch of lips.

Castiel inches closer, tentative. He’s too present to question his coy behaviour. 

_ —car accident in the hills that border the south side of the city— _

They meet in the middle, lips first, lips soft and giving. Cas wants to give too.

“Here we go,” the driver says and pulls up on the curb.

Dean draws back, and Castiel stifles a protest.

“I guess...um… I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come pick you up for the reading.”

“Come inside, Dean.”

Dean nods, shy and sweet, and Castiel can’t wait to take him home.

_ —you’re the 12th caller in! What are you going to do with your cash prize?— _

“On credit,” he tells the driver.

“Sure thing.”

The driver reaches into the glove compartment for the card swipe machine, and Dean steps out of the car, mumbling something about fresh air and leaving the door open for him. Castiel fumbles for his wallet, feeling uncoordinated, drunk on something that’s none of his usual suspects.

The voice on the radio is nasally and high pitched and annoying. “Um I think I’m going to, like, get the new phone that’s coming out. I have the latest model, but it won’t  _ be _ the latest anymore soon,” she laughs. “I like to do phone photography for instagram.”

Castiel scoffs. “What a drone.”

“Really, man?”

He scoots towards the door to see Dean’s face, and puts one foot on the pavement. “What?”

“Nothing. Nevermind. I just thought you had…”

The driver hands him the device, coiled wire stretching to reach him. “Tell me.”

“I said forget it, Cas.”

“You thought what?” Dean doesn’t answer, and he puts down the machine to get out of the car. “That I had changed,” he says when they’re face to face.

“Something like that, yeah.”

He crosses his arm, and glares. “She said  _ phone photography _ , Dean. She’s a victim of capitalism.”

“You’re not better than her because she’s doing things differently.”

“No, but I can see a manipulation when it’s written on the wall.”

Dean shakes his head, puts his hands up in surrender. “You're so fucking twisted.” Not a surrender, then.

“Why, Dean?” he challenges.

“Because you think it’s corrupted to want things!”

“Like that promotion?”

“Fuck you. There's nothing wrong with trying to be happy.”

“There no such thing, Dean! One time someone had a warm fuzzy feeling because he experienced something enjoyable, and he called it happy. People warped that definition. Like a life can be a happy one. It can't. There are moments of good feelings and you try to get as many in as you can and then you die.”

“You having a lot of those, Cas? Good times, cooped up in this house?”

“You talk shit about my house a lot, but I recall giving you at least two happy moments in it today alone.”

“Yeah, thanks for those.”

Dean shoves past him and back into the car. He rattles an address to the uncomfortable driver, and they disappear down the street.

Castiel’s left standing on the sidewalk. Even the stars aren’t sufficient company.

-

Missed calls   
(1) Crowley   
(3) Queen of Moons   
(1) Eileen Memorial Hospital

-

Queen of Moons   
1:17 am   
You need to call me back.

-

Queen of Moons   
1:39 am   
Right fucking now, Dean

-

Queen of Moons   
2:06 am   
Where the fuck are you???


	7. Chapter 7

_ The second time Casper sees Sean it’s four years later. No time at all to him. _

_ He hears a prayer directed to no one angel in particular, and recognises it as Marie’s nightly ones. Heaven has learned to tune out the prayers they receive, only paying attention to the Smiths when there is danger afoot and, in the case of Marie, only until the Boy King is born. Heaven will have no use for her afterwards.  _

_ This time, Marie’s words are disjointed. Interrupted for brief seconds before they continue only to be stilted again. No other angel seems alarmed but Casper decides to take a peek. _

_ “And thank you for keeping my three favourite boys happy and-” _

_ “Dad’s not a  _ boy _ , Mom,” Sean corrects mousily, and Marie laughs and nods, rubbing circle over her belly. _

_ “You’re absolutely right. I’ve made a mistake. Thank you for keeping my three favourite men happy and well and safe. Thank you—” _

_ “Safe from what, Mom?” His eyes are big and curious, his smile bright. _

_ It takes Marie a while to get through her prayer, laughing at Sean’s incessant questioning. _

_ And when she tells her son angels are watching over him, she is right. _

-

Castiel takes a cab to  _ Crack the Spine _ , the bookstore hosting the reading. The cause is one he cares about, and after researching the Youth Literacy Foundation he decided it was worth making a public appearance. This is his sixth in his entire career. Hopefully the number doesn’t double by the time he’s dead.

He doesn’t mind that Dean never showed up this morning. That he didn’t even get a text. He’s not owed anything, least of all transportation. If Dean wants to retreat to his corner and lick his wounds, he’s free to do so. Castiel isn’t going to stop him. People… They come and they go, and that’s how he likes it. Mostly the going.

They had a good thing the past few weeks, but— _ oh.  _ It's been months.

This isn’t a bookstore he’s been to before, but it’s more homey than the name suggests, light wood tones, plants, macrame art. He likes it as soon as he walks in. Except for all the people who are there. And looking at him.

“Mr. Novak.” The woman who greets him has tight and full coils framing soft features, almond eyes, a plump pout. She holds a clipboard to her chest, and sticks a hand out for him. “I’m Cassie Robinson. We’re very grateful you agreed to be here.”

Castiel shakes her hand. “It’s a charity I’m happy to support.”

He scans the crowd; they’ve added whispering to their repertoire of actions which was previously limited to ogling and bouncing on the balls of their feet. The audience is split, there’s men and women, teenagers and full grown adults, some with their kids in tow. None of them are Dean.

He expected Dean to be in a pissy mood, but he expected Dean to be here.

He’s disappointed. A sign that he’s been spending too much time with the editor.

“You can follow me, Mr. Novak, and—”

“Cas. Tiel. Castiel is fine.”

Cassie nods, smiles. “We have a table for autographs and a small stage set up towards the back.” Castiel follows her. “I’m excited to find out which excerpt you’ve chosen.” She grins at him over her shoulders, curls bouncing from the movement. “Dean told me it’s a great one.”

The excerpt… Dean would have picked that out for him.

She stops by a platform that has an overhead mic stand situated above a small armchair, and faces him. Her smile falters. “Everything alright, Mr— Castiel?”

“About the excerpt…”

“Don’t be nervous. The audience always loves the snippets the authors select, which is why we leave it to your discretion. I communicated to Dean that children are present, considering the cause. We only ask that be kept in mind.”

“Right, right. Of course.”

He looks around. There are more people back here, most already seated in the field of chairs, to be joined by others. In the front row, a small, sandy haired boy flips through the pages of a book.

Castiel lowers himself on a knee and props an elbow on the other. “Hello.”

The boy looks up, and pale green eyes startle him. “Hi,” he says with a big smile. “You’re who we’re here to see, right?” 

The boy points to a poster with Castiel’s first and only author photo. He threatened to leave Word Mil if they included it in any publication after the first  _ Supernatural _ . He hated having his face everywhere, hated getting recognised. Still does.

The woman sitting next to the boy looks on with eager eyes. She must be the mom.

“I don’t know about that, but I’m the man on the poster, yes. I’m Castiel. What’s your name?”

“Jesse Turner.”

“Alright, Jesse. I prepared to be here about as little as possible. Think you could do me a favour and lend me the book you’re reading?”

Jesse shuts it and holds it to his chest.  _ The Prince and the Pauper _ , Castiel reads. 

“What for?”

“Sweetie, don’t be rude,” the mom says, but it's a valid question.

“I’d like to read it to everyone.”

“You would?” Behind him, Cassie sounds confused.

“Will you give it back?” Jesse asks, calculating. It makes Cas smile.

“I will return it to you intact.”

“Okay,” Jesse gives in, holding the book out for him. “But do the voices, okay?”

Castiel does the voices, rough as gravel for the prince, sweet and sing-songy for the pauper, and when he finishes the book too soon, he invents a story off the top of his head. The kids abandon their respective spots to sit on the floor in the front of the stage.

He doesn’t dumb things down for children—that’s the best way to stifle their growth—and he’s pleased to see that it goes over well. The parents aren't running him out of the shop, and the kids are engaged and smiling. Cas is grinning too, from ear to ear, making his cheeks ache.

He’s ramping up for a third tale when Cassie announces a break. Which is fine. Then she says the meet and greet will follow. Decidedly less fine. That’s going to be a chore and a colossal waste of his time. He’ll duck out early. He saw a side exit by the bathrooms earlier.

But that might reflect poorly on Dean.

That shouldn’t concern him. He considers himself in his decisions, never anyone else. 

He trails behind Cassie to where she said he can have an hour to be alone and rest until the autograph session. The small kitchenette is silent and empty save for a table and chairs. He has half a mind to ask her to stay just to keep his thoughts in check. He doesn’t need them running rampant. That risks disrupting the life he’s crafted for himself.

“I have a delivery service on stand by,” Cassie says, opening a cupboard. “But Dean insisted this is what you’d want.”

She pulls out a sealed box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Food fit for gods.

She laughs. “I take it he was right, you’re smiling more than the prince at the end of act three.” She puts one bowl in front of him on the table and leaves, promising to check in.

He barely enjoys the CTC which is all sorts of fucked up. Dean is souring his mood, and Castiel gets rid of people who do that. Unless it’s necessary, he doesn’t deal with bullshit. And that’s just what yesterday was. Well, the tail end of the night.

Dean overreacted. Castiel’s comment wasn’t about the girl on the radio, but about society brainwashing people into a futile spending culture that ultimately harms the environment. Dean barely has a leg to stand on. It’s him who should be mad. Dean wants him to change, but conforming is exactly what he spent his life  _ not _ doing. 

If anything it’s Dean who loosened up, who started prioritising his own transient pleasures. Dean’s gotten out of his own head long enough to not always be looking at the bigger picture—it’s only made up of small snapshots anyway—and Castiel has loved watching it happen.

It’s what Castiel believed in when he met Dean briefly years ago, it’s what he believed in when Dean became his editor and it’s what he believes in now. Dean will be the one to go before that part of Castiel ever does.

Except.

The small and large moments with Dean have been more fulfilling than any other. The ones that stand out most when he looks back at his life so far. He’s always looking forward to the next time he’ll get to be near Dean. 

Castiel lets his desires guide his life, and right now what he wants is to keep Dean around. 

But Dean didn’t show up this morning. It’s out of character. Castiel might have fucked up beyond repair. And it frightens him.

-

Dean’s tired in a way he hasn’t been in a long time, and he considers laying on the front stoop of his eight floor walk-up instead of braving the stairs. He shimmies the front door open, giving it that jig it needs, while the mid-afternoon sun beats down on his back, mocking him. Gorgeous days and peaceful nights are when tragedies happen in his experience.

He drags himself up the flights of stairs, the handrail rattling as he leans into it. Maybe he was born ragged, like whoever or whatever put him together couldn’t be bothered with a fresh mold. Or, more likely, they knew Dean didn’t deserve one. Life keeps peddling crap his way but he’s the one who keeps fucking up. Each painstaking step is a whispered reminder. It wears him down, chips away at whatever has been keeping him together since he left Cas. Since he saw Charlie’s messages.

Finding Charlie in the hospital waiting room broke his heart. She’s usually vibrant in appearance and temperament, but this morning she was faded. Crumbling. Dean had to be the solid one. He held her until she stopped crying, then held her some more until she stopped shaking. Dean can feel her ghost in his arms, now, bones trembling like leaves caught in a storm.

For hours, they sat in uncomfortable, plastic chairs that threatened to give any minute. That drained him the most. The waiting. Nothing but time for his worries to mingle and merge and form monsters greater than him. Uncontrollable creatures that lead Dean to dark places where he has no choice but to confront himself. He’s such an ugly thing.

Things got worse, as they do, when they were finally allowed into the hospital room. He thought seeing Charlie was bad, but pale and broken Benny was worse. He looked so close to death he might as well have sat with Him for a serving of pickle chips. Dean had forgotten how easily people could, and have, been taken from him. He remembers now.

Benny had been doing so good, too. He hadn’t touched the stuff in years. Dean should have known how much of a threat Sorento was to Benny’s sobriety. That asshole had always spelled trouble. Dean shouldn’t have let up. He was supposed to be there for Benny. It was on him to be better for his friend.

It’s oddly foreign, the sadness and anger and shame that’s wearing him like a perfectly-fitted suit. It’s been a long time since he last felt this inadequate. Lately, his laughter came easier, and his life felt like it was finally his. Like it was what he wanted.

Things were going too well for him. The other shoe was bound to drop, and it wouldn’t be Dean’s life if it didn’t come tied to a boulder.

He just… he just needs a minute. Needs to catch his breath, needs to sleep. Wants to be told that everything is irrelevant. Wants the words to be rasped in his ear, the only way he’ll believe them.

He used to find it hard to deal with Cas’ eccentric take on life and living. That’s not the case anymore. He’s liberated when he leans into it. Not to the extent that Cas does, which is why Cas is never going to want Dean beyond a fuck. And sometimes a cuddle. Cas’ comment about the girl on the radio is proof. Maybe Dean doesn’t care about Instagram or whatever she was on about, but he can’t not care about his career, about being a contributing member of society, about his existence beyond the small moments. About what it all means.

Cas can. But Cas is otherworldly and both of Dean’s feet are firmly rooted to the ground.

Dean wishes he could, wishes Cas could whisk him away and fly them off to a place where none of Dean’s worries can find him. 

He digs his keys out as he makes it to the eighth floor, the wood of the landing creaking beneath him.

_ Oh. _

Cas pushes off the wall. He’s wearing a small smile, and the clothes Dean suggested for the reading while Cas drew and paid him no mind. 

Dean ambles forward, and he’s going to shout. Or punch him. He ends up pressing into Cas’ chest while strong arms wrap around him. Breathing comes easier.

-

Castiel gathers Dean in his arms, and he relaxes into the contact. Dean smells of old books and new books and leather, and he missed it. It comforts him, until he hears a wrecked little sob. A pitiful sound that’s barely above a breath, but echoes like a boulder dropping in a forest.

The thin material of his sweater wets where Dean’s face buries in his neck.

“Alright,” he whispers, rubbing circles on Dean’s back. “Let’s get you inside.”

He works the keys free from Dean’s hand, and pulls him through the door.

Dean pulls away for him to lock the door behind them and Castiel gets his first good look. Dean’s destroyed, swaying on unsteady feet, eyes red and veiny, the slump of a defeated man in his shoulder. His clothes are the same ones he wore to Castiel’s yesterday morning which means he hasn’t been home since. Where’d he go after they argued?

“You look like shit,” he says.

“Thanks, Cas.” There’s no bite to the words, just resignation. It’s alarming.

He guides Dean’s pliant body to the couch. “You need to sleep.” 

He pulls Dean’s flannel from his shoulder first, then his jeans down halfway. Once he plants Dean on the cushion, he kneels to work off each shoe, and tugs the pants the rest of the way off. He looks back up, and Dean’s asleep, head hanging at an awkward angle.

Castiel fluffs a pillow and repositions him. 

Dean’s apartment is smaller than Castiel expects. He knows Dean can afford something bigger, in a better neighbourhood even. But it’s fitting for Dean. The space is well utilised and all the books are on the shelves instead of the floor. Castiel isn’t quite sure where he fits in. If he even does.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself other than leave.

-

_ Sean’s sixteen when he realises he’s not afraid of the dark.  _

_ He knows about the things that make homes out of shadows, about how blood turns to tar when the sun's down and the moon’s too busy to come out, about growls that scrape alleys raw how only the unnatural can. Sean knows, knew too young. _

_ But Sean also knows how to fight, how to shoot an M700, how to dull his machete on the necks of vamps. _

_ The monsters haven't caused this slow crawl of his skin over wary bones in a long time. _

_ The motel’s quiet. Not eerie. Not suspicious. But Dad’s working a case and Sam’s at a sleepover and the neighbours finished fucking an hour ago. The motel is quiet like oppression, dark.  _ Lonely _. _

_ The realisation hits him like a throat-punch, chokes him out of the only safe corner of his mind. _

_ He’s going to go through life like this, back to a creaky mattress that promises to dip for no one else. He doesn't even get to keep Danny, the kid’s already talking about college. And Jonah’s an island he’s never going to reach. _

_ The night doesn't scare him, but it’s a reminder that he's always going to be like this, yearning for something that won’t come. _

_ Leaves rustle outside the window, soft like feathers against the glass, and when Sean looks over, the moon is loud, bright and borderline obnoxious, but home in a sea of stars caught on a dark web. It reminds him that he is small in the grand scheme. _

_ Sean sleeps, and he sleeps well. _

-

Castiel is stirring the soup occasionally like the can says, when Dean wakes up. He doesn’t notice until Dean leans his elbows onto the counter that sections the kitchen off from the rest of the apartment.

“You’re cooking something,” Dean says in disbelief. It’s offensive, really. Castiel can cook. He chooses not to.

“What kind of maniac doesn’t keep cereal in their house?”

Dean chuckles and rubs sleep out of an eye. Says, “You’re still here.”

“Do you wish I had left?” Should he not have come at all?

Dean shakes his head side to side, moving like molasses in the still air; he’s still tired. The smile that follows is just as slow. Castiel mirrors it.

He pours the soup out of the pot and into a bowl. “You look better than before,” he says. “Though, not great." 

Dean grins, and rounds the counter to retrieve a second bowl for Castiel. That means he’s staying for dinner. “Not good enough to draw, huh?”

He laughs, and soup sloshes over the rim of the bowl. 

He sobers when Dean’s smiles turns sad. “Are you okay?” he asks, quiet.

Dean rubs the back of his neck and turns away to grab cutlery from a drawer. “I’m fine, Cas.”

Castiel says, “I don’t know why you even bother lying to me.”

Dean stiffens. 

“But it’s alright. We don’t have to get into it.” 

“It’s Benny,” Dean says, and turns back around, green eyes shining. “He…”

“Relapsed?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “He overdosed.” Castiel wants to hug him again. “Wait, he told you about this?”

“No, but I picked up on it the first time I went to his restaurant. How is he?”

“He’s hanging in there, and he’ll get back on his feet because he always does.” Dean meanders towards the kitchen table, and slumps into a chair, elbows on knees and head hung. “The doctors are keeping him for observation, and Charlie and I are researching rehabilitation programmes. It’s just…” He shakes his head. “He came so close to being gone.”

Castiel shifts, and moves closer, soup forgotten. He hesitates before touching Dean’s tense shoulder. 

“It jars things into perspective.”

“Tell me what you need, Dean.”

Dean looks up, looks small, tiny under Castiel’s hand. It makes him sick that Dean is lost as Castiel is beginning to feel found.

“I know it’s crass,” Dean says. “But d’you got any weed on you?”

 

They sit on the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table, legs tangled.

“And another thing,” Dean slurs. “Who names a character after themselves?”

Castiel focuses through the haze of his mind, and he’s certain that makes exactly no sense. “No one is named Castiel in  _ Supernatural _ .” 

All of Dean’s complaints about the series so far—or ‘The list of changes I’d have made if I were your editor at the time,’ as he put it—are valid. This one, less so.

“Yeah, okay,  _ Cas _ per.”

Castiel blinks. “You’re the only one who calls me Cas.”

Dean pauses, nods, and continues ticking off his issues with  _ Supernatural _ . The quantity surprises Castiel, considering how much Dean likes the books; it makes him happy.

 

They start on a second joint, ambers bright and warm against the cool moonlight.

“Imagine you’re wrapped in a sheet,” Dean says, lazily moving heavy limbs to hug himself. “Like it was a part of you, you know. Like a second skin.” 

“But less gross?”

“Yeah, less gross.” He drops his hands back to his sides and they thud against the floor. “Hey, how did you know where I live?” He lolls his head from side to side, neck braced by the cushion where he’s propped against the couch.

Cas hums. “You told the cab driver yesterday.”

“Yesterday was great until it got dumb.”

“I’m sorry I got dumb.”

“S’okay. Mostly you’re great.”

Maybe Dean doesn’t expect him to change. That was a concern of his, right? Does that mean he has no concerns now? Nothing stopping him from having… From having.

He giggles, a soft rumble that starts in his chest and makes its way out like it belongs here, like it needs to hang in the space between him and Dean.

Dean giggles too.

Castiel drapes an arm on the coffee table he’s leaning on. The edge digging into his back would be uncomfortable if this moment wasn’t fucking perfect. He takes another hit and hands Dean the joint. When he exhales, white smoke joins their laughter in the air. 

“Alright, Dean,” he says seriously. “I’m imagining the covers.”

“It’s a sheet.”

“Get to the point.”

“Okay, okay. You do that, visualise the sheet.” Dean pulls from the joint.

He must forget his train of thought because for an immeasurable while—Castiel has a loose  grasp on time right now—he watches Castiel instead of talking. Castiel does the same, gets mesmerised by eye crinkles, by the sea of freckles, by perfect lips that part just a bit to release a breath. Mesmerised in perfect cheekbones, the sharp line of jaw, and in skin that looks tan even in the faint moonlight.

“Then,” Dean starts, and loses his thought. He tries again, “And then, it, like, expands.” His lids flutter shut, and his lashes rest against his cheeks.

“Can you see it, Cas?”

Cas can’t and it might be his greatest regret.

“It stretches, you know,” Dean explains. “The sheet. It reaches out and it swallows others.”

“Naturally.”

“Yeah, it takes them inside. It consumes people, like you do me sometimes.”

_ Like I do him sometimes _ .

They quiet, and Dean opens his eyes. Green meeting blue, like the tops of trees against the summer sky.

“But the sheet doesn’t stop there,” Dean continues. “It takes more. It absorbs the city, and the state, and the world, and everything beyond it.”

“And then what?” Cas asks, curious now.

“And then nothing,” Dean deadpans, like it’s obvious.

It’s not.

“I thought you said there was a point to this, Dean?”

“That is the point. When you’ve inhaled all there is, then there’s nothing. Nothing left to look at. Nothing left to see.” Dean looks incredibly sad again. “You’re alone.”

There’s another lull, longer, empty. Opposite to the charged moment they shared before. They don’t look at each other now, though he hears Dean fiddle with the lighter, burning inconsequential amounts of air, bits at a time, before lighting up again and taking another hit.

Cas says, “Sheets rip.”

And Dean’s less sad when he agrees that they do.

 

When Dean starts nodding off, Castiel suggests that he go to bed. Dean suggests Castiel come with.

He pulls Dean’s t-shirt off so he’s left in his boxers, then strips down to his own. They climb between fresh smelling sheets that are scratchier than his own, and he tugs Dean close.

“Your brother stopped by,” he murmurs before he forgets, and Dean’s brows furrow adorably as he burrows into his chest.

“He did?” Dean asks, sleepily.

“While you napped,” he hums. “He returned your keys. Then, he hugged me and threatened me at the same time, and asked me to warn you that you’ll be having words.”

Dean hides his face. “Sorry about that. He, uh, probably got the wrong idea.”

Castiel whispers, “Did he?”

Dean is already asleep.

That’s alright; it wasn’t really a question.

 

Castiel wakes up cradled in warmth. Something soft travels from the knob of his shoulder up his neck, to his ear.

A whisper, still raspy from sleep. “Good morning, Cas.”

Dean’s chest presses into his back as solidly as Dean is woven into his life. The arm around his hips is firm, and fingertips tease the waistband of his boxers.

He turns in Dean’s hold. Sometimes he thinks that he builds up Dean’s good looks in his head. He doesn’t. Dean’s beauty is startling every time. 

“Hello,” he says.

Dean smiles, and lights up in the peeking sunlight. He bites his lip, says, “Thank you. I don’t think I’d have liked being alone last night.”

Castiel kisses him. Because he can. Because he wants to. Because he knows it’ll be perfect before he even does it.

Dean’s pink when he draws back. “I should get up.”

“Definitely not.” He pushes Dean to his back, and straddles him, keeping their chests close, lips dancing over his. “That idea is the worst.”

Dean laughs, cranes his neck up, but Castiel leans away, teasing. He gets pulled down by the hands in his hair, interlocked at the back of his neck. “You’re the worst.”

He sighs into the kiss. Yeah, perfect. He wouldn’t say no to this. Wouldn’t say no to this every morning.

“I need to get to work.”

Dean rolls him off, and stands to stretch. He can’t even appreciate the moving muscles of Dean’s back with their time being cut short. “Play hookie. You’ve had a rough weekend.”

Dean walks to a dresser to gather items. “I would, but there’s a lot to do, and part of leadership is setting a good example.”

What? 

Dean is still working towards the promotion Michael is never going to give him. Still getting manipulated. Last night, what Dean said about gaining perspective wasn’t about this. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Dean says by the doorway, smiling. “Cereal’s in the cabinet above the fridge.” He leaves the room, and seconds later another door in the apartment opens and shuts.

Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean is so blind when it comes to Michael. He doesn’t agree with how the industry is run and he doesn’t care enough to do something about it, but Dean does, and Castiel’s not about to let him waste another ten years for the opportunity to do some good. To get his something meaningful.

He gets out of bed, dresses, and washes his face in the kitchen sink. He feels guilty taking Dean’s keys, taking his car, but not guilty enough to stop himself.

He’s out the door by the time the shower turns on.

-

FROM: crackthespine.bookstore@gmail.com   
TO:  dwinchester@wordmil.com   
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Writers Read for Charity

Dean!

The reading was a soaring success. We’ve raised more funds than ever before. I’m sorry you couldn’t be here and that Castiel had to leave in such a hurry. Please thank him for me.

Cassie

-

FROM: mmilton@wordmil.com  
TO: dwinchester@wordmil.com  
SUBJECT: none

Explain to me why Castiel Novak is at the office and not you.

I’m not happy, Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

_ It’s noon when Sean pulls into a lot at Stanford, sunshine at war with crisp air. At twenty-six he’s never felt older in this sea of students. They wear their youth like it’s free, some dressed up to embrace Halloween. He and Danny never did costumes, considering. _

_ He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t drag Dan back into the life he never wanted—who would want it? He’s being selfish, but Dad’s  _ gone _ and he can’t find him alone. Can’t do any of this alone. Or won’t. Or doesn’t want to.  _

_ Selfish. _

_ He spends too long parked in a place he doesn’t belong, listening to AC/DC tapes and eating road food from the gas ‘n sip. He got all of Dan’s favourites, and licorice just so they can argue about it like when they were kids. And pre-popped popcorn, little chewy pieces of heaven. _

_ The sun sets by the time he decides to leave. _

_ “C’mon, sweetheart. Not now,” Sean pleas with his car, rubbing comforting circles into the dash as the engine splutters. _

_ He did a tune up a week ago. Sean sighs and reaches for the handle when static comes across the radio. There’s something wrong with the wiring, too? The soundwaves settle and Plant’s voice rings clear. _

Babe, Babe, Baby, please come home, home yeah

_ He had the AC/DC cassette in. Right? _

I know, ya been gone too long, been away so long 

_ Fuck, what’s he going to do? Fix up the Impala, and be on his merry way? _

Babe, Babe, Baby, I want you to please come home

_ Without Dan? _

Come on home, oh yeah, you’ve been gone too long

_ Not without Dan. _

_ “Alright! You win,” he says to the car. Then, “You’d tell me if you were possessed right?”  _

_ He chuckles, and pulls the key out of the ignition. _

_ When he and Dan hop in an hour later, the engine runs smoothly across moonlit roads. _

-

Dean’s apartment is small so it takes a cursory sweep of the main room and a peek into the bedroom to realise that Cas isn’t there. Dean does both at least five times, because he’s insane and he thinks the result might change. He wants them to. Wants Cas to be eating breakfast at his kitchen table. Wants Cas in his bed to receive him after his shower. Cas wouldn’t care about getting wet.

Dean dresses for work slowly, styles his hair even slower, triple checks the content of his messenger bag. Maybe Cas couldn’t find the coffee, like he couldn’t find the cereal, and went out to get some for them.

Or maybe Dean’s been seeing things that aren’t there.

He’s still home at the time he usually arrives to work. How he’s stalling, hoping, is sad and pathetic. But then again so is he.

And Cas is a the fucking worst; why the fuck are his keys and car gone?

-

He rips the door open before the first knock finishes echoing. Cas is smiling, soft and edged with something eager. 

“What the actual fuck, Cas!”

“I know, I know, taking your car was not a cool thing to do, but—”

Dean blocks the doorway where Cas tries to stroll in like he has a right to. “I know you went to see Michael. What did you do?”

“I—”

“No. No, I don’t want to fucking hear it. I’ve had enough of your shit. I managed to get over your boorish, asshole personality.  _ Somehow _ . And this fucked up misanthropy that’s festering inside you. But this is too much.”

“I don’t hate humankind, I—”

“I don’t care. You’ve crossed a line, Cas. I let it go when we were at the gala, but you can’t go to my boss and say shit just ‘cause you feel like it. You don’t care about me getting Gabriel’s old job, and that’s fine. But don’t use this to mess with Word Mil and Michael for your own pleasure. How fucked up are you?”

Castiel presses his lips together, and his crossed arms and narrowed eyes mimic Dean’s; he’s not trying to defend himself anymore. Good. 

“Hey, look, you’re keeping your mouth shut for once. What’s’a matter, Cas? Nothing to say?”

“Nothing you’re willing to hear.”

“You’re damn right.” Dean steps out into the hall, and slams the door behind him. “Give me my goddamn keys.”

-

Getting from the elevator doors to Michael’s office feels like five walks of shame rolled into one. Dean shouldn’t have to do this, shouldn’t have to apologise for Cas’ behaviour. Cas, whose role in Dean’s life changed too much over the past months. He went from antagonist, to ally, to something else entirely. Now he’s back to being terrible. And Dean… Dean wishes he wasn’t. Wishes Cas had waited to tear it all down so Dean could have lived in the illusion longer. Wishes Cas hadn’t shown him his soft side at all. How is Dean supposed to forget? How is he supposed to ever want anything else? 

He’s so fucked. He’s about to lose what he’s worked towards his entire adult life, and what he’s hung up on, the thought that keeps constricting his chest, is what could have been with Cas.

Granted he gets to keep his job, he’s going to have to keep working with Cas. He wants to, he’s put too much into Bomb Girl to hand it off to another editor. But.

There’s always buts when it comes to Cas.

How long can Dean be near him before the thrum of hurt in his body twists into something crueler? Dean already spent too much time touching without having. Knowing that he never really will. Cas isn’t the type to give himself to anyone.

He knocks on Michael’s glass door, the blinds drawn as usual. Adam steps out, grinning.

“Heyya, Boss,” he says, and saunters away.

“Dean,” Michael calls, and he walks in.

Michael is grinning too. He doesn’t  _ seem _ in bad mood. Dean takes a seat, and tests the waters. “Hey.”

“You’ve outdone yourself yet again, Dean-o.” Michael stands and rounds the desk to lean against it. “Castiel Novak stopped by.” Michael laughs. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Lighten up, Dean.”

“Wait, so it wasn’t…” A shit show. “A bad visit?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Well you know, Castiel. He carries a bucket of disdain with him everywhere he goes.” Michael waves a hand, like he isn’t bothered. But the other white-knuckle grips the desk’s edge. “For everyone but you it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“He raved about having you as an editor.”

“He what?”

“Said you do better what Gabriel did best, and then some. He went on about your out of the box thinking, your ability to zero in on problems in the manuscript, and expressing those in a way that is uplifting and encouraging to a writer.”

“He… did?” Cas wasn’t screwing him over. Or fucking with Word Mil for a laugh.

Michael nods. “Mentioned that he’s more excited about his current projects than he’s ever been. Because of you.” He adjusts his tie before continuing. “You know as well as I how much swing Castiel has. His books are our best sellers, and we largely depend on them. We want him to sign on with us again once his contract ends. Luckily he doesn’t usually care about our affairs, but I gave what he said some serious thought, and I think I’d be doing you, our writers, and this company a disservice if I take you away from field work.”

Dean shifts in his seat, and leans forward, more alert. “Field work? What do you mean?”

“There’s a lot of bureaucracy and management aspects to being Head of Editorial. I want you working with our writers as much as possible, elevating manuscripts to their best.”

“...But I already do all that.”

“Exactly. I want you to keep doing it.”

“No, I mean I do all of Gabriel’s old paperwork. I had to catch up on the quarter because he was behind when he left. All the editors report to me. You’ve intervened on a few things, like Anna’s editor, but for the most part I’ve already been running the department.”

Michael is still smiling, and for the first time Dean sees sharp teeth. “Adam is going to relieve you of these duties.”

“ _ Adam? _ ” Dean jolts to his feet, the word like a lashing. Like the Earth’s crust pulled from under him. Like putting glasses on for the first time and finally seeing leaves, finally seeing what’s right in front of him. 

He was never going to get the promotion.

Michael’s been stringing him along for months. For years. And Dean  _ let him _ . He fell for it every step of the way. He’s such a fucking dumbass. Anna knew.  _ Cas _ knew. But Michael had always seemed… golden. He gave Dean his first job in the industry before Dean was even done with school. He called him family. 

He played him.

“Yes,” Michael says. “It’ll be a good fit, I think. Mil can stand for Milton and Milligan.” He laughs.  _ Laughs _ .

“I’m,” Dean starts. Stops. Clears his throat. “Not feeling great. I’m going home for the day.”

His joints are stiff as he makes his way to the door. Every second in this place he helped build is toxic.

“Of course, Dean. Don’t stray too far from your emails however. Adam might be restructuring and shuffling the editors around. We might be reassigning Castiel.”

Bomb Girl is  _ his _ . 

_ Cas is his. _

Dean wants to swivel around, and shout just that. Onlookers be damned. Cas would damn them. Cas wouldn’t give a flying fuck. But.

Always a but.

But Cas cares about him. At least enough to be near Michael for more than a minute. At least before Dean went and ruined things.

Things more meaningful than this job.

-

The walk from his car to Cas’ front door is like coming home. He doesn’t know how welcome he’ll be.

He rings the doorbell, and it might as well be an hour before Cas answers. Tension builds in his body like nothing he’s experienced before, fear and anticipation molding into one clusterfuck.

Cas is gorgeous. Of course he is. He’s wearing light wash jeans that Dean knows for a fact are supernaturally soft, and a t-shirt Dean left here. His face is impassive and it hasn’t been that with Dean in a long time.

They stare for a while, Cas’ frame filling up the door’s, Dean feeling small and shitty. And then Cas twists, moves to the side. Enough for Dean to slip into his house.

As soon as Cas closes the door behind him, Dean says, “You were right, Cas. Michael was never going to give me the job.” It’s not what he wants to talk about.

“And you deserve it, too,” Cas says, quiet. He leans against the door and tucks his hands behind his back. “I knew you were a good editor, but I saw your notes on your desk at home. You have really great ideas for Word Mil. Plans that’d make it less of a factory peddling the same white male narrative.”

“Michael told me what you said.”

“How long were you there?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Then he didn’t tell you all of it.”

It takes him a while to understand why his vision blurs. To realise he is tearing up. “Cas, you’re—” What? “Things are only ever okay with you,” he admits. “Fuck the rest.”

“That’s not who you are.”

“What?”

“You’re not a  _ fuck it all _ kind of guy.”

“None of it mattered! I’ve just been wasting my time.”

Cas raises a knowing brow.

“Are you shitting me right now, Cas? You’ve given me your spiel how many times? And now that I’m on board with all the bullshit—”

“It’s not a spiel, and it’s not who you are, Dean. Neither was that promotion. That  _ bullshit _ works for me. Find bullshit that works for you. It’ll be garbage, because everything is, relatively, but it’ll be custom made at least.”

“So what now? I’m supposed to go figure that out?”

“You’re smart. I have faith.”

Dean nods, runs a hand through his hair. “I know it’s not a spiel.”

“Good. I’m not a misanthrope either.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have said that. I get it, Cas. Why you live the way you do. Experiencing life a moment at a time, free of societal norms, selective of the things you deem worthy enough to care about” Dean could have been one of those things. Could be still, maybe. “I shouldn’t have called you the worst this morning either.”

“Well, I don’t know. I am that at least a little.”

“You’re not that at all.”

Cas looks away, his cheeks colouring. 

Cas says, “I got the girls to kiss.”

“Yeah? Bomb Girl finally got some?”

“And she—”

Dean’s phone rings. “It’s Charlie.”

“Could be about Benny,” Cas says. Like he knows all about Dean’s life. And he does. Because Dean shared all of it with him. When did that happen? “You should go.” He opens the door. “You’ve got some things to sort through.”

Dean nods, and regrets every step he takes away from the house.

-

_ Sean’s thirty-two and he’s never lived in one place this long. He’s been staying at the shitty motel ten miles out, the one with pathetic water pressure, a lumpy mattress, and stained everything. He visits every day. _

_ The Impala’s hood sears hot through his jeans and against his palms, but he stays for hours anyway, eyes stuck on the patch of too-bright grass. He’ll miss the ground splitting and spitting his brother back out if he stops looking. _

_ “He won’t return.” Sean hasn’t heard that voice in long time. It’s gentler than he remembers. _

_ “I know,” he says, his own voice raspy from disuse. _

_ “Do you?” _

_ He looks over to Cas, trench caught in the same breeze that tousles his hair, eyes too blue and knowing, hands slack by his thighs. _

_ “You’re here all the time.” _

_ “Like you’d know.” _

_ “Hey.” Cas stalks over and blocks his view of the field. “I have always watched over you. Will always look out for you.” He steps closer so Sean’s legs bracket him on either side. _

_ “You left.” Sean spits like the accusation has been lodged in the back of his throat for months. It has. _

_ “I thought it was what you needed.” The gentle hands that lift to rest on his knees are hotter than the scorching metal under him. “And wanted.” _

_ His fingers knot in tan fabric, gripping tight. “It wasn’t.” _

_ “And now?” _

_ “It isn’t.” _

_ “Then I’ll stay.” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “Yes, Sean.” _

-

Dean lets himself into Cas’ house a week later, carrying a crate. He walks up the stairs, navigating them without much thought so he steps where they don’t creak.

Cas is in his office, standing by the printer as it whirs. The pages coming out lay on top of an already thick stack.

“Hey,” he says, from the doorway. At a distance.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas smiles.

“Benny says thanks. For the flowers. They’re from your garden right?”

Cas nods. “What do you have there?”

Dean grins, puts only some of his heart into it. “Good news.” He advances into the room to place the crate on the desk. “You won’t have to deal with me nagging you much longer.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I won’t let them change my editor, Dean.”

“You still want me around, huh?”

Cas’ voice is all certainty, no waver. “Yes.”

Dean chokes. “T-They didn’t, uh, try to do that yet. Didn’t get the chance. I quit.”

“Oh… What are you going to do?”

“Ten Inch Publishing have been trying to poach me for a while. It could be good.”

Cas nods. “They’re less conservative over there. A good fit.”

The air is stale from the imminent goodbye.

“So what’s in the box?” Cas asks.

Dean laughs. “Every half scene and mock chapter you’ve ever given me.”

Cas’ eyes light up, and he walks over to dig through the crate. “You kept all of them? Even the ones I did to fuck with you.”

“They were all great—”

“Even the one I fucked you on!” Cas pulls it— _ Something New _ —out, triumphant. Blue eyes smile with mischief. “Did you jerk off to it?”

“Shut the fuck up, man.” Dean laughs.

“I have something for you, too.” Cas walks back to the printer that stopped at some point. Dean doesn’t notice much other than Cas when he’s in the room. “I finished this today.”

Cas brings him the pages. Excited, Dean asks, “Bomb Girl? Do we have a title for her yet?” He reads, “ _ The Righteous Man _ by Castiel Novak.”

Dean frowns at the ink and its refusal to make sense.

“Cas.” He looks up at the writer. “What is this?”

“The story of Sean Smith. Post-near-apocalypse.”

“You wrote this?”

“You’re slow on the uptake today, Dean.”

Dean stares.

“Yes. I wrote it. And it’s not for Word Mil.”

“You want to go to Ten Inch?”

“I want to go with you.” Cas straightens, rolls his shoulders back, coughs a little. “I want to be with you.”

Dean stiffens. “Don’t stay stuff like that, Cas.” He shakes his head. “Not if you don’t mean it.”

“I could. You’re assuming I don’t.”

“A relationship? It’s not your cup of tea.”

“I can try new teas. That’s a thing people do.”

“You’ve been buying the same brand of cereal since college.”

“Since high school, excuse you. And that’s because I found what works. CTC is excellent.”

Cas takes the manuscript from his hands—oh, they’re shaking—and places it aside, before interlocking their fingers. Cas is so close Dean can feel him in his chest, right where his heart pounds.

“I found what works.”

Dean found him too.

-

Three months later Dean unboxes his books and places them on the unused shelves in Cas’ study. Cas helps.

“It’s  _ our _ study now,” Cas reminds him. There are two desks where Cas had his before, perpendicular to the wall, and facing one another. They bought a matching chair for Dean. Christened it twice. “Maybe we should have bought a new place together. Neutral space.”

“Can’t.” Dean looks out the window. “The garden and the woods are here.”

Cas laughs. “We can find those elsewhere.”

“This is homebase for Men of Letters, Cas. Quit bad mouthing it.”

“If you turn out to be super superstitious, I’m leaving you.”

He moves quickly, startling Cas when he pins him to the wall with their bodies flushed. They share a breath, and Dean says, “Super superstitious is a dumb thing to say.” 

He kisses Cas long and deep. They’ve got a shit ton to do, but this matters too much.

“Are you mine, Cas?” he asks against dry lips.

Cas says, “Yes, Dean.”

“Good. You’re not going anywhere until you show me a finished draft.”

Cas pushes past him, beelining for his desk. “I did the story board,” he states proudly.

He holds the sketchbook out to Dean with shaky hands. 

Dean holds one as he flips through the illustrations and scarce text. It’s momentous: Castiel Novak’s first children’s book.

And Dean’s publishing it. Men of Letters has an imprint just for kids.  _ Legacy _ , they called it.

Cas found his calling through it, one he never scoffs at, and Dean found the right path for himself. One he doesn’t have to walk alone.

-

FROM: crackthespine.bookstore@gmail.com   
TO:  deanwinchester@mol.com   
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Book Club- Sunday’s event

Attached are some topics that are hot with the store’s regulars, lately. Your writers might want to touch on those during the panel.

Cassie

-

FROM: annamilton@mol.com   
TO:  deanwinchester@mol.com   
SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Developmental edits

You were right about chapter six. It needed to be broken down in two parts.

I’m not reworking the end of eight though, and you can’t make me.

-

FROM: castielnovak@mol.com   
TO: deanwinchester@mol.com   
SUBJECT: RE: Adventures of Moose and Squirrel

I don’t know why you say that, Dean. Any resemblance these characters may have with real people is purely coincidental.

-

Cas   
5:42 pm   
I’m eating you out and plugging your ass before we go out

Cas   
5:42 pm   
I want you to keep it for the entire evening

-

Queen of Moons   
6:19 pm   
If you forget the eggnog tonight I’m leaving you on the lawn   
And bring Cas’ game!

Queen of Moons  
6:21 pm  
The homemade cards  
Nothing nasty

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Really, I appreciate the time spent :)
> 
> Come find me on that [tumblr](https://fanforfanatic.tumblr.com/) thing :D


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